A Woman's Guide to Vigilantism
by Jules Ink
Summary: After five years of hell, fear, and poor decisions, of becoming a weapon, Felicity Smoak returns home to her family intending to finally make things right—only to find that there are some things you cannot run from. Like love. And mortal enemies. And your mother's loud voice.
1. Prologue

Hey. It's been a while, but I feel like this is a perfect time to spread some Olicity-joy. Because, you know, URG!

This story is dedicated to my wonderful friend **Albiona** who pulled me out of the black-hole of writer's block I fell into after finishing 'Vegas' by requesting a fic based on the title picture. [I tried but couldn't find out who made it. I don't mean to just steal it, so if you've made it, please contact me.] So, yeah, it's all her fault. I know it's been done before, but I seem to have a thing for tropes and it's been so much fun writing it. [Actually, this fic should be called "featuring some of the most hilarious sentences ever". ;) ] The first chapter is just an introduction, we'll really jump in next chapter. I hope you'll like it. Love, Jules.

 _[I do not own Arrow. No copyright infringement intended. This work is simply meant as private entertainment of the readers (and its author). It's not to be shared on other sides other than this, Ao3, and my Tumblr. I do not consent to uploads to charging e-book-pages.]_

* * *

 **Prologue**

Oliver Queen knew guns. He could operate them skillfully; his reaction time was perfect. He had the stars to prove it, making him the unchallenged leader of his squad. Only John Diggle could come close to his skills, and once they teamed up they were feared by their enemy.

Oliver Queen was a decorated soldier—as long as guns and enemies were virtual.

As he stared down the barrel of a very real gun, the masterful Call of Duty veteran had to admit: the all-nighters on his PS4 hadn't prepared him for this.

Sweat collected on his brow and slipped down his temple. He swallowed heavily, forcing himself to stop staring at the gun (it was so close to his eyes, he was squinting behind his horn-rimmed glasses). Instead, he placed his attention on the man aiming it at him, the bald dude looking way too amused, grinning and revealing a golden front tooth.

Now was the time to say something—preferably something clever and witty—to make it perfectly clear he wasn't afraid and wouldn't let himself be bullied into using his skills for evil.

Oliver Queen would _not_ cross over to the dark side.

In movies, the guy sitting in an uncomfortable wooden chair would say something, deliver a cool punchline despite facing three scary guys dressed in leather and despite knowing that nobody would hear him scream in a warehouse by the docks.

But this wasn't a movie. This had somehow turned into Oliver's reality and he had nothing clever (or witty) to say. He didn't have a punchline to deliver, not even an un-cool one. All he could do was feel his heart pump forcefully in his chest with the fear trumping through him.

Suddenly footsteps echoed through the huge room. They came closer without any hurry, getting louder with a casualness that Oliver couldn't really explain but heard clearly. Finally, a man stepped into the light cone illuminating the part of the warehouse where Oliver sat, kept without being bound.

The clichéd English teacher vibe radiating off the guy startled Oliver into staring at him, taking in his tweet jacket (with elbow patches!), his perfectly side-parted hair, and his brown corduroys. He stopped in front of Oliver, smiling down at the younger man without any warmth. It was a smile of superiority, filled with confidence. "Mr. Queen—or would you prefer me addressing you as Optimal Prime?"

Oliver would prefer not to be addressed by this guy at all. Actually, the optimal thing would be Elbow-Patches not knowing Oliver's top-secret hacker name, but that ship had obviously sailed. Oliver swallowed heavily again.

"I see you are the stoic type." Elbow-Patches's unnerving smile wasn't wavering. "That's perfectly fine. You can stay silent—while doing exactly as you're told."

The three guys that grabbed him in the parking lot of the supermarket had told him that they needed his hacking skills. They hadn't told him directly, but Oliver had pieced it together. Stripping him of all his gadgets (laptop, phone, smart-wearable, tablet) was the first clue, driven home by one of them warning the others to "make sure the hacker doesn't get his hands on anything he can use to call for help". Actually calling for help had been impossible, too, due to the tape slapped over his mouth. They had pulled that off in the warehouse, laughing as Oliver had cried out in pain.

The evil teacher stopped smiling and nodded to one of the abductors. A guy with a facial tattoo (tribal, covering the left half of his face. Oliver couldn't help but think that the guy wasn't Mike Tyson, no matter how much the dude wished he was) stepped forward, past his partner with the golden tooth, and pulled Oliver up by his arm.

Tattoo-dude was taller than Oliver, strong and muscular. Oliver had started some light weight-training last month (he wasn't getting out of this gym membership Digg had talked him into anyway, so he might as well use it to shed some of the extra pounds he'd been carrying around). He could appreciate the time and dedication that guy put into his impressive biceps. Sadly, it didn't dim the sinking feeling within Oliver, because he couldn't do anything but let himself be dragged across the warehouse, toward a desk with an impressive computer setup. Oliver wasn't a fighter—he was outnumbered and threatened with a gun—he didn't have a choice but to let the man push him down onto another chair, a rolling one this time.

The three computer screens came to life as Oliver's chair crashed against the desk, making everything on top rattle. Illuminated by the hard lightning of the monitors, Oliver looked up at the wannabe Mike Tyson and found his voice. "You never said what you want me to do."

Again, the noisy footsteps sounded through the huge hall as the head of this weird little operation walked toward him. "We need you to give us access to Kinsley Airbase."

The hair on Oliver's neck stood up, goose bumps of shock raced over his skin, perfectly visible since he was wearing his favorite Captain America t-shirt. The shock was also audible in his voice as an involuntary "What?" fell from his lips.

The smile returned to Elbow-Patches's face. "I think my request is pretty self-explanatory. So, you should get to it. And believe me: we'll know if you do anything other than what we ask of you."

Oliver stared at the man who seemed so dignified, all poise, politeness, and good manners, but who was obviously insane—and a terrorist. At least that was Oliver's best guess. Why else would somebody want access to one of the biggest arsenals of weapons and ammunition in the US? Oliver knew about the somewhat secret airbase because his best friend John Diggle was a soldier. And even though Digg was overseas at the moment, he and his wife Lyla had been stationed at Kinsley once.

"No." Oliver was surprised that his voice sounded so strong and determined. He certainly didn't feel either.

Tweet-jacket raised an eyebrow that looked way too amused for Oliver's liking. "No?" he repeated, his voice dripping sarcasm. "Please, Mr. Queen, do not misunderstand the situation. I might have used the word 'request', but let me assure you that the only choice you have is between doing as we tell you and dying."

"I won't help you get access to those weapons."

"Who says we want weapons?"

"What else would you want?"

"Launch codes."

"I won't help you get those either."

Evil teacher tipped his head to the side, studying Oliver. He wasn't a very tall man—only a little taller than Oliver sitting on his chair—and he was skinny, but he was intimating nevertheless. The way his eyes slid over Oliver showed that he could see the younger man's death already and didn't mind what he saw. "You're trying to put up a brave act. That is unexpected." He took his eyes off Oliver and rested them on Mike Tyson. "He needs his fingers, the rest is dispensable."

The facial tattoo shifted as the guy grinned. "Kneecaps are my specialty, anyway."

"You look pale, Mr. Queen," Elbow-Patches observed. "Are you sure you want to be this brave? You could spare yourself some pain and us some time. Just stop being difficult."

"Sorry," Oliver said and couldn't help but wonder what had gotten into him. What was he doing here? He must be out of his mind. He was bad with pain. Like, really, _really_ bad. But he was even worse with terrorism, apparently. Hacking the NSA, crashing Google's servers, messing with Starling City's traffic lights was one thing; handing launch codes for _whatever_ over to criminals, giving them the power to destroy en masse _whatever_ was something entirely different. At least it was to former hactivist Oliver Queen, aka Optimal Prime.

Damn it, he was being really brave here and there was nobody around to witness it.

"Julius Hudson, you have failed this city."

The words echoed through the huge room and before Oliver really registered them, he had to come to terms with the fact that tattoo-guy was crashing to the floor. Oliver blinked and, yes, there was an arrow sticking out of the man's leg as he rolled over the floor, groaning and bleeding.

Shooting up from his chair, Oliver whirled around in time to see a figure drop from the metal rafters. His mouth opened slightly as he saw the figure—a woman, he recognized now, who was much smaller than the two men she had touched ground next to—jump up and wrap her legs around Golden-Tooth's neck. The big guy crashed head first onto the concrete floor, pulled down by the petite figure in one fluent movement. A bone shattering crack followed, making Oliver's stomach turn; that never happened when he played Tekken—and the woman's moves strongly reminded him of the old-school videogame, because what she was doing seemed unreal.

The third kidnapper, who had kept in the background before, ran toward her, but she evaded him elegantly, effortlessness and easy. The guy, who was at least one head taller, came at her again, fists swinging, but she blocked the blows skillfully. It looked like dancing—the very aggressive kind—and somehow she ended up kicking the hollow of his knee from behind, bringing her opponent to his knees. Her right hand was closed around a bow and she brought it down to his nose, once and a second time, knocking him unconscious.

Oliver didn't even have time to be impressed before she straightened up opposite him, her bow raised and drawn, aiming an arrow—not at him but at Elbow-Patches who, as Oliver only noticed now, was pointing a gun at him.

"Drop your bow or the boy dies."

The woman simply let go of the string. The shattering sound of the gun hitting the concrete rang through the warehouse, immediately followed by a yell filled with pain. The first arrow had knocked Patches' gun out of his hand, the second had sliced through his arm. Nearly soundlessly, the woman moved. Again, she jumped up and knocked him out with one well-timed kick.

Barely one minute ago, Oliver had feared for his kneecaps. Now the fear was replaced by awe. Stunned, he let his eyes travel over the three unconscious men and the one groaning in pain to his right.

"The police are on their way."

The voice telling him that was undoubtedly female, but it was altered to make it sound deeper, more dangerous. It fit her while not fitting her at all. She had an intimidating aura, her fighting skills were all kinds of _awesome_ and meant that she shouldn't be messed with, but she didn't frighten him. She was dangerous, but she didn't mean danger to him, he was sure of that.

Oliver looked at the woman standing three steps away from him, dressed in dark green leather, a hood hiding more than half of her face. He swallowed heavily and willed himself to stop staring. He forced himself to say something. Awkwardly, he pushed his glasses up. "Thank you."

She nodded. Police sirens sounded in the distance, getting louder by the moment and that sound spurred her into action, reaching for another arrow. His eyes followed her as she flew upward, pulled by a cable, landed on a metallic bar far above, and disappeared through a skylight. Oliver stared at where she had vanished.

Damn it that was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to him—and the most terrifying. He had just been saved by a woman with a bow and wearing green leather.

Yeah, Oliver decided, this Wednesday could have ended much, much worse.


	2. Hi, I'm Oliver Queen

The prologue got the mixed reviews I expected. I understand that the premise of this fic isn't for everybody—and that's fine. I, personally, don't think that Oliver acted like a pansy in the previous chapter; I actually think he was pretty brave for a guy without any fighting skills.

Anyway, to all the wonderful people who enjoyed the short glimpse that was the prologue and were so kind to send me encouraging comments: thank you for the support. I appreciate it deeply and hope you'll continue to enjoy this fic, now that it's finally, really starting. Love, Jules.

As always: this is **Albiona** -approved. She'll forever be my rainbow-colored muse of awesome.

* * *

 **Hi, I'm Oliver Queen**

Looking into the mirror was a challenge for Felicity Smoak. Doing so meant facing what she had become.

There had been a time when Felicity had very much enjoyed the sight of her own reflection. Back then she had used any shiny surface to check her make-up and hair or to send herself a quick little wink for being ahhm-aaay-zing. That had been the time when her MySpace name had been SmoakinHot and her diet had consisted of champagne and cocaine—neither very healthy but both very low on carbs and fat.

That ditzy socialite was gone. She was just a distant memory, reflected in the room surrounding her: in the photos pinned to the wall and around the mirror showing smiling, posing, happy, very _drunk_ people. It showed in the collection of liquor bottles on the cabinet with the bong in the middle, in the massive stack of fashion magazines that were thoroughly read (plus five years old) while her college books were still shrink-wrapped, and in the impressive walk-in-closet filled with designer clothes and shoes (all as dated as the magazines).

The girl all of that belonged to drowned in the North China Sea five years ago. Someone else entirely had returned home to Starling City.

What she saw looking in the mirror surrounded by memories was proof: scars, ugly and protruding and showing the lack of medical care she had lived with for so long. They spread out all over her torso, front and back, mixing with healed burn marks and tattoos on her hip and her ribcage. The inked pictures were different kinds of memories and permanent membership cards—and another irrevocable reminder of the past five years. She looked hideous, but couldn't bring herself to care because they fit. She was hideous.

A knock startled Felicity, and before she could move to put on more than a bra and panties, the door to her room opened.

"Sweetie, I found the perfect outf—"

Her mother stopped dead in her tracks, the words dying on her lips. She had taken two steps into the room before not only seeing her daughter but registering what she saw. She blinked and Felicity could see her mother gathering her composure, fighting not to react too badly to the bad sight of her daughter's disfigured body. But Donna couldn't look away. Standing there in her perfectly tailored grey business suit, her blonde hair draped over her shoulders in styled perfection, she studied each scar closely.

"Mom—" Felicity started, but Donna cut her off.

"I guess, I didn't find the perfect outfit." Her mother let her right hand holding two hangers sink. "Crop tops are overrated anyway. That trend will pass." Carelessly she draped the clothes over the bed in passing and, without another word, walked to her daughter and hugged her.

Felicity hesitated before returning the hug. She stood for a few heartbeats, her mother's arms around her unresponsive body. Hugging wasn't an automatic response anymore. It felt unfamiliar being this close to somebody like that. Unfamiliar but nice. Felicity hadn't noticed how much she had missed hugs in the previous years, how much she had missed her mother's closeness, her warmth, her comfort, how much she had missed being loved. Feeling a lump in her throat like she did every time her mother held her, Felicity closed her arms around her mom. She was dimly aware that she held on too tightly, but Donna's only response was to tighten her own hold, whispering, "Oh, sweetie." Neither woman let go.

Felicity Smoak had never been much into hugging… _before_ —unlike her mother. Donna had always been a hugger, somebody who wore her emotions on her sleeve, who cried easily and shamelessly.

How that woman had taken over a multi-billion dollar company after her husband and daughter were lost at sea, even managing to increase its value, was a complete mystery to her daughter.

Felicity granted herself another moment to relish the tender human contact. Loosening her arms, she was about to step away from her mother, but Donna held on. Making sure to catch her daughter's eyes, she stated firmly. "You are beautiful, Felicity. Whatever you had to live through, it's done. You're home. You are my miracle."

With a nod Felicity accepted her mother's words, unable to actually say anything, the lump in her throat growing once more. It was nice to hear that—but the niceness triggered guilt. Some things felt like they could never be over, like she should never be allowed to move past some of her doings. A tiny voice within Felicity told her that she didn't deserve her mother's comfort.

Finally, Donna let go and instead moved a gentle hand through her daughter's blonde hair, falling long and thick over her shoulders.

"Is it okay?" Felicity asked, referring to her hairstyle. "I'm a little out of practice." It was the truth. Today was the first time in five years Felicity used a curling iron.

"Well, sweetie, there are some things a woman never forgets how to do," Donna said and added with a quick wave of her hand, "It's like riding a bike." She turned. "I'll get you one of my suits. I have a pencil skirt that will look beautiful on you—and it's perfectly appropriate for going to court and to get legally resurrected. Finally. I can't believe it took the lawyers two months to get the necessary paperwork done. As if you were an imposter trying to get access to your trust fund." She crossed the room. "We should hurry, Quentin's waiting already."

Coming home to Quentin Lance living in Smoak Mansion had been a shock. During her time away Felicity thought a lot about her mother, but her love life had never been part of that consideration.

After picking up her freshly returned daughter from the hospital, Donna used the drive home to fill Felicity in on what had happened while she was away—her wedding one year ago one of them. It made sense to Felicity that her mother had moved on and found new love, doing so fit her mother.

But, at first, Detective Quentin Lance hadn't seemed like a good fit.

In Felicity's memory, her best friend's father was a moody man who frowned a lot and had perfected pursing his lips in annoyance. Felicity had received a pinning stare nearly every time she met Quentin Lance before taking the boating trip. He had been the one parent who hadn't let his child get away with all the crap they'd pulled.

In light of everything she'd experienced in the previous five years, his behavior seemed different to Felicity. Quentin Lance seemed different. He still did the eyebrow-thing and the lip-thing and that annoyed huff, but he did so because he cared. He was a hard-working, serious, honest man and he was a very different person from Donna Smoak—maybe that was why they worked, maybe that was why her mother was Donna Smoak-Lance now.

The urge to apologize to Quentin Lance had been overwhelming when Felicity returned, even if there weren't any words to make it right ever again. Felicity had been the one to invite his daughter on the boating trip that had ultimately led to her death. It was Felicity's drama that the friends had tried to escape. It was her fault.

When she had told Quentin Lance, when she actually had apologized, he had pursed his lips at her, called her an idiot, and said, "How can you be to fault for a storm? It was nature's fault. Sara asked if she could go with you. Her grades were good that semester, so I agreed. Does that mean I'm to blame, too?"

Obviously, the mother had way better man-picking skills than the daughter.

Even though, her mother didn't sound too happy with her husband thirty minutes later, sitting in the passenger's seat of Quentin's Ford on the way to the courthouse. "We should've taken the Bentley."

"Donna, I'm perfectly capable of driving. I don't need a chauffeur."

"Nobody _needs_ a chauffeur," Donna answered, dismissively. "But there will be paparazzi at the courthouse and the Smoaks have a reputation to uphold."

"Well, we're the Smoak-Lances now and we don't participate in that press hibbididy-bob."

The last word was ridiculous, but Quentin Lance managed to say it in such serious disgust that it stirred dim amusement within Felicity. Sitting in the backseat of the well-kept but also well-used car, she enjoyed watching her mother and her mother's husband (she couldn't bring herself to think of him as her stepfather) interact. She enjoyed the normalcy of their conversation, how unguarded and open they were around each other. She enjoyed witnessing this. Part of her longed to participate, to join their banter, but she didn't know how. She had forgotten how to be easygoing. She longed to get that part of herself back, while feeling deep within her bones that it was lost. She had probably lost it around the same time she had bashed a man's skull in under the disapproving eyes of Slade Wilson and Yao Fei.

Coming back, she had tried to act like nothing had changed, like she still was the carefree, fun-loving girl with the easy smile. Her mother had seen through her bad act instantly. And Felicity had given up pretending just as quickly. She had changed. Most of the time she didn't like who she had become, but this was who she was now. She had to accept that and make the most of it.

Quentin Lance's voice ripped Felicity out of her thoughts—she did that often, she realized, zone out. That probably happened if you spent too much time with yourself as your only friend.

"I have to get to the precinct after this," the detective informed the other two people in the car. "Last night another transport bringing medicine to the free clinic in the Glades was robbed. That's the third one—and that's three too many." He sent his wife a sideways glance. "And not just because it's your free clinic."

"Our free clinic," Donna corrected, smiling fondly. She leaned toward her husband and pecked his cheek.

Felicity half-expected the man to chide his wife for distracting him from driving, but instead she saw the softest smile ghost around the detective's lips. He sobered up quickly. "Ricky will be here in one hour to pick you two up."

"We could go downtown afterward," Donna suggested, turning in her seat to look at her daughter. "Alice Winter's having a birthday brunch and her daughter Willow will be there, too. You two could catch up."

"Mom," Felicity said, trying (and failing) not to sound annoyed, "Willow Winter and I never liked each other." (Partly, because Felicity had made some very nasty comments about the girl's name.) "We have nothing to catch up on."

"You should still give it a try," her mother insisted. "You need to put yourself out there, interact with people, people that are not Quentin and I, people around your own age. You can't go on keeping to yourself. I won't let you."

Felicity sighed and looked at her mother, staying silent.

"Okay," Donna said, "I won't force you to go to that brunch with me. But promise me that you'll stop your loner ways."

"Loner ways?"

"Promise me that you'll try to meet people. Have an actual conversation with somebody." The expression on Donna's face showed she meant business.

Fighting to keep another sigh in, Felicity gave a quick nod.

"I'll hold you to that promise," Donna stated and turned back to the front.

Silence settled over the three people. Quentin Lance ended it and suddenly the annoyance Felicity remembered so perfectly resonated in his voice. "Look at that circus! They are crowding the whole sidewalk!"

Shifting in her seat, Felicity looked out of the windshield. They were nearing the courthouse and, really, the steps leading up to it and the sidewalk were filled with reporters, cameramen, photographers. Subconsciously, Felicity tugged at a button of the purple silk blouse she had matched to her mother's black pencil shirt. It was buttoned all the way up. Not the slightest trace of skin—of a scar—was visible, she had made sure of that.

To her surprise, Quentin didn't slow down but drove right past the assembled press and around a corner. A guard waited there, but waved them past when the Detective showed his badge. Smiling widely, Donna turned in her seat as Quentin steered the car to the quiet entrance in the back. "The Smoak-Lances, way above all that hillbilly-bob."

"It was hibbididy-bob," Felicity corrected before she could stop herself. Why did her brain memorize _everything_?

"Oh?" Donna smirked, obviously taking her daughter's statement as a joke. "Good. I'm glad we're not participating in _that_ either." Her smile turned warmer, more caring, and less amused, "Let's get you legally resurrected, sweetie."

* * *

Reading the subject heading of the email, Oliver's bullshit senses tingled. "Project Paperless Office" sounded like something the overpaid hipsters in the marketing department celebrated by patting themselves on the shoulder (look at the awesome, although apparent alliteration!). Those idiots obviously never left their offices in the thirty-first floor of Smoak Tower, because if they did, they'd know this project doesn't stand a chance.

Oliver Queen, sitting in the IT department on the twenty-third floor, looked at the stack of paper the department's secretary had just handed him.

There couldn't be anything more ironic than the head of the IT department, Eugene Hill, sending his employees handwritten notes.

And, yes, it was ironic. It actually fit the definition of irony. Unlike his mother's statement, claiming it was pretty ironic that his sister's graduation day was the one day of the year it rained in Las Vegas. That wasn't ironic—that was bad luck. Oliver had kept from correcting his mom, though. She had been unhappy enough with her high heels getting stuck in the muddy grass and with his sister Thea cutting her long curls just the day before.

Oliver loved his mother, he really did. But he loved her even more when there were a thousand miles separating them.

He was grateful for everything his hard-working mother had done, for the sacrifices she had made for her children, but Oliver knew he had nothing in common with the Queen women and every one of his sparse visits reminded him of that. He had only come back yesterday (after two exhausting days)—meaning he didn't have to worry about another Vegas trip until Christmas.

Chasing those thoughts away, he placed his attention back on the paper on his desk and studied the list of tasks his supervisor had given him. They were all routine stuff, nothing special, nothing challenging. Getting a job right out of college in a high-profile company like Smoak International had been awesome, but by now the awesomeness wore off. Fixing computers and updating servers weren't exactly exciting. Sure, there was the occasional hacker attack (every high-profile company had to deal with that), but ultimately fighting off those wasn't fulfilling either. Oliver really, really hoped his application for the new Applied Computer Sciences Department (ACSD) would come through. That would be an amazing opportunity, the chance to use all his skills to do real good and further technological progress.

If he didn't get to switch departments, he'd seriously have to consider if he wanted to keep working in this company—to hell with health and dental, with free food in the cafeteria and the break room, with the company gym and the company child care (he didn't use either anyway), to hell with the hefty Christmas bonuses and the flexible work hours.

Oliver sighed. Who was he kidding? There was hardly a better working environment. Reaching for a pen, he checked his boss' list. The server update was done already. He ticked that off and brought the pen to his lips, thinking, studying the next task. WiFi on the seventh floor was buggy.

"Oliver Queen?"

Surprised, Oliver turned toward the female voice behind him. A blonde woman stood there. He blinked stupidly and opened his mouth to answer, only to notice the pen sticking between his lips. Hectically, he reached for it and wiped his lips, relieved not to find any traces of ink. He composed himself. "Yes?"

"Hi, I'm Jennifer Fisher. The telephone system on the top four floors is down and—"

Oliver stopped the blonde in the black business suit right there. "We know. Jeff Anderson's already on it."

"I'm aware," Miss Fisher said. "I was merely explaining why Mrs. Smoak-Lance's EA asked me to come down here personally."

"Oh." Feeling caught, Oliver finally placed the pen back on his desk. "Sorry," he apologized—and then Miss Fisher's words really registered within him. He groaned. "God, what did she do _now_?"

The woman with the blonde bob standing next to his desk frowned. "What?"

"Nothing," Oliver dismissed, keeping from lamenting the big boss' complete inability to handle anything electronic without breaking it. Instead, he reached for his tablet. "I'll head up there right now."

With quick steps he left his cubicle, the woman, the department, and headed down the hall to the elevators. At least once a week he was called to the top floor to fix something Mrs. Smoak-Lance had messed up.

Sometimes Oliver wondered if the computer self-destructed on purpose to catch a break from the CEO's mistreatment.

Oliver used the elevator ride to the thirty-ninth floor to check his reflection in the mirrored walls. The white dress shirt he wore had a bad coffee stain on its pocket, but he hadn't gotten around to doing laundry. The blue V-neck sweater he wore covered that up perfectly. Trapping his tablet with his arm, he fixed the knot of his tie. He hated ties, loosened them any chance he got, but his supervisor had deemed the damn things mandatory. Going to the CEO's office definitely wasn't the moment to break the rules and look sloppy.

His tie fixed, he stepped out of the elevator and headed toward the desk where Donna Smoak-Lance's EA, Gerry Conway, sat with his back to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The man in the impeccable suit greeted him with a smile. "Oliver, I've missed you the last two weeks."

Yeah, the men saw so much of each other that they were on a first name basis. Glancing to the right, through the glass wall offering a perfect view into the CEO's office, Oliver saw that the adjoining room was empty. "Yeah," he answered. "I can't believe it's been that long. Did she really not break anything in the last two weeks?"

"Nothing that I couldn't fix." Gerry winked. "This time she said her email doesn't work. I checked and couldn't find her email client."

"I'll have a look."

Oliver always felt weird in the glass office, sitting at the desk, in the chair belonging to the CEO. Once he had sat there when Mrs. Smoak-Lance had entered and he had jumped out of the seat so quickly that he bumped his knee and crashed the chair into the wall behind him, leaving a dent. Mrs. Smoak-Lance had looked at him with pity in her eyes and given him official permission to sit in her chair when he fixed her technological stuff. That's what she had called it: _technological stuff_.

The computer took forever to boot (Mrs. Smoak-Lance had probably caught another virus). As he did every time he sat behind this desk, he took in the pictures standing next to the screen. There were two, one of Mrs. Smoak-Lance and her second husband (Oliver would have never taken her for a hyphenator, but when your international company carries your first husband's name, you probably can't go and just drop it), and one of the CEO and her daughter. When alone in the office, Oliver always took the time to study the latter—picture and person.

Felicity Smoak was hot. The picture showed her standing next to her mother on a beach. The sun made her blonde hair shine. Her eyes sparkled, matching the sassy smirk that Oliver found seriously intriguing. The short sundress she wore showed off her killer legs.

Looking at the picture felt strangely different since he knew that the girl in the photo wasn't dead.

He had seen pictures of Felicity Smoak after her return to Starling. She didn't look like the girl in this five-year-old photo anymore. Okay, she _did_ , but she really didn't. She was still hot— _so_ hot—but there was just a different air around her. At least, that's as much as Oliver could tell from the pictures he had seen... Because pictures were still his only sources to judging Felicity Smoak.

He sighed and ripped his eyes away from the photo, finding the login screen had finally loaded. It didn't matter anyway. Oliver didn't have any illusions about this: his chances regarding Felicity Smoak were as big now as they were while she was believed to be dead. She was way, _way_ out of his league. She was beautiful, rich, and popular, and he was the dude with a (hidden) stain on his shirt under fixing her mother's computer. He might as well be crushing on the girl in green leather who had saved him last week. Getting to know her was as likely as getting to know the Smoak-heir.

Giving a little jerk of his head, Oliver focused on the task at hand and nearly groaned. "She deleted her email client," he muttered in disbelief. "How did she manage to do that?" It was really an accomplishment. The program must have asked Mrs. Smoak-Lance at least three times if she was sure she wanted to proceed. _That's it_ , Oliver decided. It was time: he'd Smoak-proof the computer. Smoak-Lance-proof. Once he was done, this woman wouldn't be able to empty her trash bin without his approval. Not that she ever would—virtually speaking. And probably IRL, too.

He brought his fingers to the keyboard. Time to ace this technological stuff.

* * *

The barricade consisted of two SUVs. Facing each other, the black, bulky vehicles blocked the road. Four men stood in front of the movable roadblock, automatic weapons in their hands. In unison they pressed the triggers, sending bullets into the pavement and a clear message along with it: these are warning shots, stop your truck if you don't want us to really take aim.

The driver steering the truck toward the barricade got the message and stepped onto the breaks so heavily that the back of the huge semi fishtailed slightly.

She was too late. She had taken too long to uncover the route the medical transport would take tonight and she hadn't had time to clear the road for it. Anger at her own failure bubbled within her, and she quickened her steps, running full speed across the adjoining rooftop. She pushed herself off the edge of the building, propelling herself through the air, landing on top of the trailer with a metallic bang. Balancing on top of the still-moving vehicle, she straightened up and drew her bow. She saw the recognition on the faces of the four men further down mix with shock. They took a second to gawk at the silhouette on the truck sliding toward them. They couldn't look away from the hooded figure with the bow drawn that had made headlines multiple times within the last weeks and that the press had named 'the Arrow.'

Felicity Smoak, who didn't really like her press-given nickname but knew it could be worse, used the moments of shock to live up to her alter ego: an arrow flew through the air. A second followed before the first reached its destination. Both hit men in their arms, making them let go of their guns, and wrapped cables around them, trapping them.

Their yells of pain were enough to bring the other two back to the senses. But by the time they pressed the triggers of their firearms, they found nothing to aim at.

The Arrow had jumped down, taking cover in the gap between truck and trailer. The semi had slowed enough that she dared to jump to the ground, knowing she could move fast enough not to get hit and pulled under the massive tires. Running full speed, using the momentum of the skidding truck, she headed toward her two remaining opponents. One was firing at her, but she zigzagged toward him, avoiding the spraying bullets. The trick was to keep moving, especially when somebody wasn't really aiming, putting quantity before quality.

Felicity headed toward the sidewalk and the huge dumpster placed there. It offered cover—the bullets hit the metal with forceful bangs—but most of all it distracted the shooter. She didn't slow down. Instead, she leaped. Her hands landing on top of the closed container, she pushed herself up and was on its roof in the blink of an eye. Within the next blink she was back on the ground, on the other side of the container. She hit the pavement running and reached the gun-waver in the next movement. Her foot connected with his chest in a well-placed and heavy kick, sending him backward. He crashed against the SUV behind him, so forcefully that the passenger's window burst under the impact. It knocked all the air out of him, but Felicity was already twirling around, sweeping his legs out from under him. He was still gasping for air when he hit the ground and black boots in size seven connected with his face.

The remaining opponent had been trying to free one of his partners-in-crime from the Arrow's bindings, but he gave up that attempt to raise his weapon. It was kicked out of his hand before his arm was even half-way raised.

Keeping her head low, making sure the hood fell deep into her face, Felicity stood over the man kneeling next to a bound and groaning man. "Go to your boss," Felicity said, relying on the voice modulator and seeing its effect in the widening eyes of the man slowly rising his hands. "Tell him his time stealing medicine is up. I'm protecting the transports. If he wants to keep failing this city, he has to face the consequences."

The eyes of the man twitched left and right to his defeated colleagues.

"GO!" Felicity roared.

Scrambling to his feet, he raced down the street as fast as he could.

She took a second to look behind him, to make sure the two men were thoroughly tied up and that the third was still breathing. _All secure_ , she decided and aimed a cable arrow toward the nearest roof top.

"Thank you!"

Surprised, she looked to the truck driver, standing on the top step of his truck, holding on to the opened door. The man with the wild beard and bald head smiled at her.

A warm sensation tugged at Felicity's heart. She didn't do this so that people could say thank you—her reasons were very different—but seeing the relief and the honest smile on this man's face was… nice. "Drive safely." The words were past her lips before she could stop them. The man nodded. Police sirens sounded in the distance and Felicity finally let go of the arrow, letting the cable pull her up the nearest rooftop, disappearing into the night.

* * *

So much for Smoak-Lance-proofing the computer.

Apparently, if Mrs. Smoak-Lance couldn't mess with the software, she simply went for the hardware.

In a, for him, unusually strained voice, Gerry Conway had told Oliver on the phone that the whole computer had shut down and wouldn't power up anymore. Considering Mrs. Smoak-Lance's all or nothing-mentality, it probably meant that throwing the thing out was the only thing left to do. Still, Oliver had to check. Holding on to his tablet and his private tool case, Oliver exited the elevator on the thirty-ninth floor.

"Thank God, Oliver!" Gerry raced toward him. "You need to get this thing going again, because she was Skype-ing and the head of the Warsaw subsidiary sent a contract over. Of course, she saved it on her _desktop_." The EA made Oliver go a little quicker by forcefully walking down the corridor himself. "I told her about the server, explained to her why it needs to be saved there. She made a joke about being a fan of easy access herself—and then she probably forgot everything I just told her." Together the two men headed toward the empty CEO office. "She's so good with strategic thinking, why doesn't she get any better with her computer?"

Oliver sighed. So much for throwing the thing out. "Did you ask her what she did when the poor thing died?"

"She said her heel got tangled in a cable and she pulled." Gerry's head snapped to Oliver. "And please don't ask me if I checked the power cord, because that's the first thing I did."

Oliver glanced at the ceiling. "Seriously, sometimes I feel like my request to switch to ACSD was doomed right from the start because I'm Mrs. Smoak-Lance's personal computer fixer."

"Oliver, you're Mrs. Smoak-Lance's personal computer fixer because you're the best in that whole department. I know that—and Mrs. Smoak-Lance knows that. And she might mess up her computer, but never her business." Gerry patted the taller man's back. "And now, please, save this contract. It's ten at night in Warsaw and that means we're way past happy hour over there."

The ringing of the telephone made Gerry rush out of the office to his own desk. A little disheartened, Oliver sighed. Time to live up to his image and make Gerry's life a little easier.

Sinking to his knees, his back to the glass wall, he crawled under the CEO's desk to have a look at the back of the computer tower. Oliver's first move was to make sure all the cables were plugged in correctly—he liked Gerry, but it was better to check than to trust blindly. But, sadly, the solution wasn't that easy—much the opposite. He groaned. How hard had Mrs. Smoak-Lance pulled? She had loosened the electrical connection in the power supply, which should be impossible. Leave it to his boss to do it anyway.

He reached for his tool case and a screwdriver. He felt the familiar weight of the well-used tool his sister had given him for his twelfth birthday. (It was perfect for these tiny screws—and, okay, maybe he was a little sentimental when it came to this… and all other things involving Thea.) Maybe he could fix the computer here in this office without needing to carry the damn tower down to the IT-department.

He worked methodically and quickly, loosening the screws and putting them on the black marble floor next to him. He had taken his mother's radio apart when he was only six—it had taken him two weeks to put that thing together in working fashion. He had been seven when he built his first computer with spare parts he gathered from the junkyard. He knew what he was doing. And he knew what he would be doing next: one look at the power supply told him he had to change the whole, damn thing.

"Gerry," he called from where he crunched underneath the desk, poking the unplugged electrical connection with his screwdriver, "good news. The hard drive's fine."

"That _is_ good news for the hard drive."

In shock, Oliver straightened up, hitting his head on the underside of the desk. That wasn't Gerry's voice. That was his boss. He scrambled backward, shooting up and around. "I—"

The apology died on his lips. Words escaped him with the air that was knocked out of him. Forcefully, he was shoved backward, against the desk, the computer screen on top of it connecting with his back. Simultaneously, there was a slap against his wrist, a hurtful one, causing his hand to open, and in the next second he was bracing himself against the CEO's desk with a hurting spot in the middle of his chest and a numb hand.

He blinked and stared at the woman opposite him, standing there with her body angled to the side, her right foot placed forward and her right hand pointing at him—holding on to the red handle of the screwdriver that had been in his hand only a second ago.

Strangely, the most shocking thing wasn't his tool switching hands but whose hand was now tightly closed around it. The person pointing his screwdriver at him as if it were a weapon left him speechless. That most definitely wasn't his boss.

He gawked at her. Seriously, there wasn't another word for what he was doing. Even his mouth was slightly opened.

She flinched, her blonde hair flowing around her face. His mouth opened a little more.

"I'm sorry that was…" she said, giving up her offensive stance, "a reflex?" She seemed uneasy, shifting her weight. "I mean, I have a good explanation for this, which… I will tell you…." He could see her dig her brain. "I have this thing with pointy things—needles and stuff. Stuff like your screwdriver."

Oliver's brain tried to keep up—and failed. He honesty couldn't wrap his head around what was happening here. And he couldn't stop staring at her, both hands holding on to the desktop behind him, and then the one thing that consumed his thoughts in the last twenty seconds escaped his mouth.

"Felicity Smoak?"

It was a shocked whisper falling from his lips. Registering what he had said made him flinch. She knew who she was, he didn't need to tell her, she knew her name. _Greet her_ , his brain urged and his mouth obeyed.

"Hi."

 _Hi?!_ How lame was he?! And how did his voice manage to crack saying those two letters? Forcing himself to pull it together to get something going that resembled a normal conversation worthy of adults, he let go of the desk behind him.

"I'm Oliver Queen."

 _That was good_ , he decided. He motioned to the tower. "I'm trying to fix your mother's computer."

"Yeah, sure." Felicity shifted her weight once more. "I'm sorry, I… pushed you. Are you okay?"

Oliver couldn't help but notice how her lips moved, colored in a brilliant shade of pink. _Get it together_ , he chided himself. This was his boss' daughter. She was _way_ out of his league and she had asked him a question. "Yes, all good," he made himself answer. He motioned to the screwdriver still in her hand. "I need that back, though."

"Oh. Of course." With a flick of her wrist she twirled the tool around, caught the metal piece, and offered the red wooden handle for him to take.

He did and nodded a quiet thank you, digging his brain for something to say.

Gerry Conway's appearance spared him from having to say anything. "Miss Smoak," he said, surprised, entering the office. "I'm sorry, I didn't know you were coming."

"Yes, I realize that I should've scheduled a meeting." She spoke quietly, softer than she had before. She turned toward the EA. "I take it my mother isn't available for a late lunch?"

"I'm sorry, Miss Smoak."

Understanding Gerry's sympathetic way of declining, she nodded. "Of course. I just thought I'd give it a try."

Oliver's eyes were glued to the small woman, studying her intently: how she tugged a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, revealing a dangling earring tangled in it. How the loose skirt of her blue dress flowed around her legs as she took a step backward. How she gestured toward the door while saying, "Then I guess I should let you two get back to your work." She focused on Gerry. "Mr. Queen has good news for you: the hard drive's unharmed." Her eyes danced between the two men. "Have nice day."

"I will tell your mother you were here," Gerry promised. "Have a good day, Miss Smoak."

Oliver forced himself to add his own, "Goodbye."

With one small smile that looked a little forced, Felicity Smoak walked out of the office. Her black heels clicked on the marble and Oliver wondered how he hadn't heard her enter. He always got too lost in his work—and apparently he also got lost in staring after his boss' daughter, because only after she disappeared around the corner did he notice Gerry's amused gaze on him. Lamely, Oliver cleared his throat. "She's right, the hard drive isn't affected. I'll change the power supply and all's good."

Thankfully, Gerry spared himself any further comment and Oliver decided he'd rather do the rest of the work in the IT department. He pocketed the screwdriver and the screws, heaved the computer tower up and headed out of the office. He was waiting for the elevator to come back up when he noticed his prickling hand and the pain in the middle of his chest—both spots ached where she had… hit him.

Felicity Smoak had hit him.

That was more body contact that he had realistically believed to ever share with Felicity Smoak—while it was very much not the kind of body contact he fantasized about having with her.

With that realization the surrealism of the last minutes crashed down on him. Had that really happened? Belatedly, his cheeks started to heat.

The elevator arrived and he hurried to step into the cabin. The door closed showing him his reflection in the mirrored wall—and he saw that he had forgotten to fasten his tie. The black cloth hung loosely around his neck. Great! If his supervisor ever found out he had looked sloppy around Felicity Smoak, he'd have to face a ten-minute lecture. But part of him reasoned that it was a small price to pay for meeting Felicity Smoak and not making a total ass out of himself. Only… 35, maybe 40 percent of an ass. That was a clear win in Oliver Queen's book—even if his chest hurt.


	3. Everybody Likes Italian

I'm amazed and overjoyed that so many of you are enjoying this fic so far and willing to explore this new 'verse with me. I cannot thank you enough for your positive encouragement and support. It means a lot to me. There's one thing I feel like putting out there, though: this fic will not follow season one. I've done the rewrite and dealt with all of that and I honestly don't want to do that again. I'll be plucking things from canon, but I'm not following one season.

A huge *hug* to **Albiona** for okaying this chapter so quickly. She's amazing like that.

Okay, I hope you'll enjoy this chapter, too. Have a great weekend! Love, Jules.

* * *

 **Everybody Likes Italian**

Felicity loved silence.

Felicity hated silence.

Both statements were equally true. Sometimes she did both at the same time.

Her base of operations took that love/hate-relationship and made it into a room. The cellar underneath the old steel factory, abandoned by Smoak International, was beautifully quiet. It was calm and gave Felicity the solitude she craved so much.

After the four months she had spent alone on Lian Yu, waiting for a boat to come close enough to rescue her, Starling City felt loud, hectic, and crowded. It also felt intrusive and threatening in very different way from Lian Yu. All those people—staring at her, dissecting her, judging her, expecting something from her, taking her picture without her consent, wanting to get a good look at the rich bitch returned from the dead—made her uncomfortable in a way getting shot at and standing on top of a moving truck couldn't. It was overwhelming at times and she loved getting a time-out, hiding away from a world she didn't fit into anymore.

She hated that she needed that time-out. She wanted to fit in, but couldn't seem to find her place in all of it. Outside of this cave that gave home to the only side of her that made sense at the moment, she felt like an outcast.

Hooding up, she knew what she was doing; she was in charge then, capable. She was doing a good thing, making a difference. People in the Glades, the ones suffering from a mixture of corruption and neglect by the wealthy people of the city, welcomed her actions. They called her, called the Arrow, a hero.

She wasn't, of course.

Felicity didn't have any illusions about that, about any alleged heroism, but taking action felt right. It was what she had come back to do: help people, do some actual good for this divided city, use the skills acquired by doing unspeakable things to trigger a positive change.

Those were the moments when she felt good. Not happy, but somewhat content. She wished she could feel like that without her hood, but the two months since her return and all her awkward interactions with normal human beings had given her more than enough evidence that she basically shouldn't be let out of this cave.

Actually, she shouldn't be allowed to interact with normal people ever, because she only ended up hurting them—literally. Like the poor guy she had attacked—and there wasn't any other word for what she had done—in her mother's office.

His name was Oliver Queen. Felicity remembered because she remembered everything.

And because he had been one of the people she had kept from getting hurt since returning to Starling.

He had impressed her that night; he had been brave, trying to do the right thing. Felicity knew how blurry the line between right and wrong could become in moments of danger. The threat of it hadn't caused Oliver Queen to cross sides and this basic moral compass told Felicity a lot about him. (He probably would have given in later, pain did that to people, but he had tried and that was something. Actually, that was _everything_.)

She might have kept him from harm during their first meeting (when she had been in charge and under a hood), but she had hurt him on their second (when she had been awkward and wearing a pretty dress that managed to hide all her scars).

Oliver Queen turning around with the screwdriver in his hand had triggered reflexes; she had blindly reacted and taken the weapon from him. She didn't even want to know what he thought about her actions. Hopefully, he believed her to be a little dense or a little crazy or a mixture of both.

She had learned her lesson. Following the sudden impulse to see her mother, to talk to another person, to the only other person she felt like she could talk to, after five hours of being silent and alone in her cellar, had been a mistake. She wouldn't make it again. Instead, she'd have to accept the fact that it was better to keep her distance and stick to what she knew.

And she knew that the gang robbing medical supply trucks hadn't learned their lesson. And thanks to the guy she had bugged and let escape, she knew where the gang's headquarter was. Time to show those guys what happened when they didn't listen to a fair warning.

* * *

John Diggle was camping in the south corner of a rundown building, probably making their enemies curse him and his mother. (Oliver didn't know why but mother-cursing was mandatory in those situations and strangely acceptable, if you ended the battle with a complimentary "good game".)

"Digg, you're on fire tonight, the epitome of IMBA," Oliver complimented his best friend. Eyes fixed on the TV, his thumbs on the sticks of his controller, he steered his soldier up a staircase—only to run into an enemy. Red blots appeared on the edges of his screen. Before Oliver could react, he was down. "Son of a _bitch_!" Oliver cursed (his killer's mother) and waited to be resurrected.

"Man," Diggle's voice came out of Oliver's headset, "pull it together. Your clan needs you."

"Don't worry, I'm coming to killstreak the hell out of those suckers."

Oliver Queen would be damned if he ended up being the weak link in this clan war. It was their ritual Wednesday evening game of Call of Duty. John Diggle took a two-hour-timeout from being a soldier to… fight a virtual war. Oliver sensed the ambiguity of that, but Digg said playing CoD and being out in the field where two very different things and only one of them was relaxing. Last week Diggle hadn't made it—the real war always came before the fake one—but he had managed to log in (from the always telling location of 'classified') tonight to go up against their rival clan, called 'Paint the town RAD' (those lame jackasses from Coast City).

Oliver directed his virtual soldier past run-down buildings. His fingers moved quickly. He pressed the fire button. "Got'cha!"

"Got the flag," Myron, Oliver's old college roommate, informed his clan mates.

"Nice," Digg complimented while Oliver's virtual alter ego jumped unnaturally high from the first floor down to a plaza, eliminating an enemy as he did so.

"Bastard!" Myron shouted suddenly. Obviously, he had lost the flag again. Myron really was a nice dude—and really good with Arithmetic circuits—but he sucked at not dying at least once every minute.

"I'll avenge you," Oliver declared with pathos—and was put down himself.

"Awesome, dude," Myron said, sarcastically. "Really glad you fought for my honor—all those two seconds."

A huff was Oliver's only reaction. Staring at the numbers counting down on his screen, Oliver flexed his hand. It had hurt since his encounter with Felicity Smoak last week. Not all the time, but after an eight hour work day filled with typing plus two hours of holding his controller, he felt the spot on his wrist where she had hit him.

Back in the CEO office he had been too shocked to grasp what was happening. It had started to sink in once he was back in the IT department but only really hit home the next morning. Standing in front of the mirror after his shower, he had seen the round, purple bruise on his sternum.

No wonder all the air had been knocked out of him.

The countdown on the screen was up and Oliver back in the game. He pressed his thumb against the stick on his controller, his solider started running. Oliver saw the familiar scenery and knew not to go right, because somebody was always camping there, waiting for a target to appear. He turned his soldier left.

His eyes were on the TV, but his mind was on the blonde who only reached his shoulder and who had… overpowered him.

Oliver was the first to admit that he wasn't exactly athletic… or fit in any kind of way. The big pizza box resting on the coffee table (self-made out of Legos) was proof enough. Oliver had nearly emptied it—only saving two slices for breakfast tomorrow. (Breakfast pizza—the best thing ever, in Oliver's opinion.) But, still, he couldn't blame his quick defeat on his lack of fitness. Or on the fact that she had startled him in every way imaginable.

Her punch and her slap had been perfectly effective, efficient. She had called it a 'reflex.' It actually might have been, but it wasn't a natural one. A natural reflex was blinking against sunlight or raising your hands to protect yourself from an object (such as a ball) flying toward you (sadly, Oliver spoke from experience).

What Felicity Smoak had done were trained reflexes. That was something else entirely.

His own trained reflexes failed Oliver in that second: his virtual soldier was put down yet again.

"Queen!" Diggle chided his best friend.

It made Oliver feign annoyance and determination. "That dude's going down." He stopped lounging on his worn-out couch and sat up a little straighter, tightening his grip on his controller, waiting for his resurrection. He couldn't mess up when they were fighting their arch-enemies. He reentered the game shooting, killing an opponent. A celebratory "ha!" escaped him and he moved his solider out of the building he had appeared in.

Myron cursed his own death in Oliver's ear while John Diggle whooped his next kill. Oliver, too, eliminated another opponent. Good! This was much better.

Oliver knew he should be freaked out by what happened with Felicity Smoak—and part of him was. But mostly it made him curious. What had happened to her on that island in the North China Sea that it had ended with her having reflexes like that?

Looking at her picture on her mother's desk, he had always found her intriguing. Turns out she was even more so in real life. And she was even more gorgeous in real life, too. In her blue dress she had looked so—

"Man!" Diggle's annoyed yell cut through Oliver's thoughts. "Get your head in the game!"

Oliver couldn't even act like he cared. "Sorry, guys. I'm not in the mood tonight."

"What?" Diggle sounded aggravated. "We're going against the RADs and you're not in the _mood_?!" A hint of sarcasm had vibrated in his voice, but it was replaced by suspicion when he added, "Did anything happen?"

"Just work stuff," Oliver dismissed.

"Guys," Myron chimed in, "this is a clan war—not a tea break!"

"Right," Diggle answered. "We'll skype tomorrow, Oliver. Now pull yourself together. We have to put the RADs down."

That was easier said than done.

* * *

Stubbornness was a character-trait of all Smoaks.

Felicity was aware and couldn't exactly bring herself to think of it as a flaw, because she knew that it was part of what had kept her alive during her five years away. (Another part was dumb luck.)

But she definitely thought of it as a bad thing when it came to her mother. Because the older Smoak woman outranked her daughter when it came to being strong-willed (which had a nicer ring to it than 'pig-headed', even though the latter was a bit more accurate).

Donna Smoak-Lance was the General of Stubbornness while Felicity was a mere Captain. Okay… maybe a Major.

For one week, Donna had pressed Felicity to give a mother-daughter lunch another, a second try. She had asked her daughter to come by her office and "brighten up my workday with your pretty face." That was direct quote.

For one week, Felicity hadn't let herself be pestered into doing that.

This morning Donna Smoak-Lance had told Felicity that she expected her daughter to be at her office at one o'clock with take-away food and a positive attitude or Donna would send Rob Scott—Smoak International's head of security—to pick her up from wherever she was ("and he _will_ find you!") to pull her to Smoak Tower, kicking and screaming. Donna had also added that she hadn't forgotten about Felicity's promise to put herself out there more—a promise Felicity had very much not kept until now.

Having lunch with her mother felt like the better of the two options.

With ten minutes to spare, Felicity Smoak entered Smoak Towers, carrying a bag filled with delicious-smelling take-away food. The elevator ride to the thirty-ninth floor took forever. Felicity willed the damn thing to move faster, to bring her to the top floor, away from the people trying to subtly look at her and failing (did that count as putting herself out there?) and to one of the few people she could actually talk to without feeling weird. (The other was, surprisingly, Quentin Lance. It didn't make any sense to Felicity, but she liked it too much to analyze.) While standing in the elevator, she also prayed to God she wouldn't run into Oliver Queen, because he most definitely added a lot of weirdness.

A sigh of relief threatened to leave her lips when the elevator stopped at her destination. Next time she would have the security guard call the executive elevator for her—what had she been thinking, declining? Acting like a normal person was futile, she should have accepted that by now.

The plastic bag filled with Styrofoam boxes swinging by her side, she headed down the hall toward Gerry Conway's desk. It was empty. Getting closer, her red high heels clicking on the marble, she saw Gerry through the glass wall, standing in the CEO office, tablet in hand, watching Donna Smoak-Lance putting a coat on. Frowning, Felicity pushed the glass door open, entering. "Mom?"

"Felicity, you came." A smile lit up Donna's face, but vanished nearly instantly. "Damn it! That's really bad timing. Sweetie, I really want to have lunch with you, but I can't. I have to put out a fire." She reached for her Birkin. "And I'm not even being metaphorical. There's an actual fire. In Bludhaven. Somebody torched our offices."

"Was anybody hurt?" Felicity walked toward her mother.

"Thankfully, no."

A fire was a good reason to cancel lunch, Felicity had to admit that, but… she frowned. "And now you want to go to Bludhaven and put out a fire? In a not metaphorical way? Don't you think the firefighters have it handled?"

"Okay, maybe I wasn't _that_ literal," Donna admitted.

Gerry glanced up from his tablet. "I just got word from the scene: the fire is out. We really need to get there."

Donna sighed. "As CEO I have to make an appearance ASAP." She stepped to her daughter and put her hands on her shoulders. "I'm very sorry, sweetie. We'll manage to have lunch together. I promise. I'm glad you actually came today."

"I didn't have much of a choice, did I?"

"You always have a choice, Felicity. Never forget that."

Felicity nodded dimly, tugging a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "Guess, that leaves more pasta for me."

"You shouldn't eat alone," Donna decided and glanced past her toward the glass wall, giving an inviting wave of her hand.

Felicity had noticed somebody moving behind her, had been aware that there was another person outside of her direct line of vision, but only as she turned around did she realize that her silent prayers hadn't been answered.

"Mrs. Smoak-Lance," Oliver Queen said, standing in the opened door, holding on to the metal handle, "there's a problem with your computer?" To Felicity it sounded like there was an unspoken 'again' attached to the question.

"Yes," Donna confirmed. "Somehow everything's Chinese."

Oliver blinked, and Gerry said, "She's being literal. She switched the language settings on her PC. I'd fix it myself, but we really have to get to Bludhaven _now_." The last part was clearly directed at his boss.

"Yes," Donna said and fixed her eyes on Oliver. "Setting the thing right can wait 'til after lunch. My daughter brought Italian for two."

"Mom," Felicity felt her face heat immediately, "he's got better things to do than eat with me."

The CEO stared at her daughter. "Really? I can't think of anything better. Have lunch, practice your small talk, have some human interaction with somebody around your own age. It's what the doctor…. No, it's what your _mother_ prescribes." She turned back to the man in the short-sleeved white shirt and the black tie, still holding on to the metal handle of the door as if it helped steady him. "You like Italian, right?" She added a dismissed gesture to her next sentence. "What am I even asking? Everybody likes Italian. So, Mr. Queen, next on your agenda: work lunch with Felicity Smoak, then teaching my computer English. Don't let my daughter talk you out of it." She kissed her daughter's cheek and whispered, "Please, try to have a normal conversation with somebody who's not your family. You promised me and this is as casual as it comes." Her eyes drilled into Felicity. "You promised me, so do this." She added a small smile and stopped whispering. "Bye, sweetie."

Felicity watched Donna rush out of the office, followed by her EA, and couldn't help but wonder if her mother had set this up. She wouldn't put it past her, but at the same time she couldn't imagine her mother burning down a company building—or any kind of building, really—to make her daughter talk to somebody who wasn't in some fashion related to her.

But why did it have to be Oliver Queen?

She turned to the man who had taken only two steps into the huge office and who was still staring where his boss had disappeared, his hand so tightly closed around the handle that his knuckles protruded as white knobs. He clearly dreaded doing this and after their first and last encounter in this exact room, she really couldn't blame him. She wanted to keep her promise to her mother, but not like this.

Felicity cleared her throat, getting his attention. "I'll just leave the food with you," she told him and walked toward the sitting area to her right. "I hope you like Linguine di Mare."

She felt his eyes on her as she walked. He sounded confused, asking, "What?"

She put the bag on the coffee and headed toward where he stood by the door.

Her attempt to walk around him was stopped by him finally letting go of the handle and blocking her way. "I'm sorry, but my boss ordered me to have lunch with you—and not to let you talk me out of it."

"That's ridiculous," Felicity decided. "My mother can't put me on your to-do list." It took a second for the echo of her statement to register within her. She flinched.

"I don't think having Italian and a nice conversation is unreasonable labor," he told her before she could say anything. He walked over to lift up the food-filled bag and gestured to the adjoining conference room. "Shall we?"

His attempt to appear calm was very obvious—and he obviously wasn't. The way his thumb brushed over his index and middle finger was a clear sign of aggravation. He was visibly nervous. She made him nervous, she realized and again her thoughts snapped back to her taking the screwdriver from him. Her own experience told her she had most likely left a bruise on his chest. He still carried visible evidence with him, on him, that told him to stay away from her. The nervousness was a sign of his survival instinct. But he wasn't listening to it, didn't take the out she was offering him. Again, Felicity couldn't help but be impressed.

That and the promise she had made to her mother (and failed to keep until now) made her ignore her own bad feeling and the voice inside her that told her she had very good reasons to keep to herself.

With a nod she walked toward the conference room. "Do you like lobster?"

"I do," he confirmed and followed her.

An unfamiliar sense of uneasiness claimed Felicity—and she hated that such an ordinary thing was such an obstacle to her. She felt her heart beat faster, sinking down in the swirly, black-leathered chair at the head of the table. Oliver placed the bag on the desktop and offered her one of the two plastic containers. She forced herself to smile a silent thank you, taking the food, the plastic cutlery, and a bottle of water from him. He placed his food to her right and sat down. "Bon apatite", he offered and Felicity hurried to nod, "You, too."

Her discomfort spiked. In an effort to hide it, she reached for her fork while wondering why a phrase like 'bon apatite' didn't come naturally to her anymore. It was a basic form of politeness that her mother had instilled in her—and despite all her pre-island antics involving indecent drunken fun, even back then Felicity Smoak had had politeness and table manners down. Back then, Felicity had been the queen of small talk. Talking for the sake of talking to strangers definitely didn't come easy to her anymore, though.

Silence surrounded them and it was highly uncomfortable. Felicity didn't know what to say to this stranger she had accidentally attacked, giving him a firsthand glimpse at what she had become in the previous years. Somehow sitting in this posh, impersonal room, that was all she could think about. Oliver Queen was a nice guy; he worked hard and was obviously very good at what he did. He was kind of cute, actually, and surrounded by a distinct good-guy aura. And suddenly this good guy was forced into a room with… her. With a woman who knew twenty-five different ways to snap a man's neck.

That thought brought her to her feet. Jumping up was an involuntary reflex. The fancy, comfortable chair rolled away from her. "I'm sorry," the words fell out of her mouth. "This is a mistake. I shouldn't be here. With you. I shouldn't pretend I can do this."

He frowned up at her. "Do what? Have lunch?" Slowly, she saw understanding take over. He nodded slowly, "Yeah, sure. I'm sure I don't exactly fit in with your crowd."

"What?" Now she was the one frowning.

"I know we don't run in the same circles. But you should know that while you were away nerds became somewhat of a thing."

She stared down at the man who obviously didn't understand anything. "We don't run in the same circles because I don't have a circle. I don't even have… a line."

"A line?" he repeated.

"Yeah—as in a geometrical form smaller than a circle."

"A line isn't a geometrical form."

Felicity stared at him. "Seriously? That's what you took from that sentence?"

"I believe in spreading knowledge."

"That's pointless. I had a D in tenth grade Algebra. And I wasn't talking about not wanting to have lunch with _you_. I just can't have lunch with you, because I suck at interacting with people. And you of all people should know that." The words tumbled past her lips and she bit them in the next moment. There! The one topic she shouldn't have addressed and she just brings it up. She squeezed her eyes closed.

Opening them again, she found Oliver's blue eyes on her. "Your mother was serious about you needing practice with your small talk, huh?" The barest shrug followed. "To be honest: I never got the hang of it myself, so… I'd say we can count the last minute as… decent interacting."

"Decent?"

He lifted his right shoulder in something that could be considered a shrug. "Could've been worse."

A moment of silence followed and Felicity couldn't help but wonder if her not attacking him (yet) should really be counted as a win—and if he was referring to that. A ghost of a smile tugged on the corners of his lips. Hesitance was written all over his face and radiated from his body language, but she understood his unspoken invitation to sit back down and try again to have a conversation that resembled ones normal people had.

She gave in to the longing deep within her. She listened to the urge that had told her constantly for two months that she wanted normalcy, that she needed human contact that wasn't her mother or her mother's husband. She just wanted to talk to somebody. Felicity pulled the chair back to the table and sat down. "Yes," she continued, "it could have been." She reached for her fork and looked him in the eyes. "I thought of an opening for small talk."

"Oh? Do tell."

"How's your pasta, Mr. Queen?"

"Please," he answered, "call me Oliver." He hesitated before adding, "I probably shouldn't have said that. You're my boss's daughter. That's probably violating social rules or something."

Felicity couldn't keep a smirk from showing on her face. "Wow, we really suck at this. Two socially acceptable sentences seem to be our limit." The smirk turned into a smile. "And, Oliver, my name's Felicity."

"Felicity," he repeated and the smile stayed on her face, because the way he said her name sounded so… nice. He cleared his throat. "My pasta is very good, thank you for asking. How's yours?" he asked, gesturing toward her spaghetti, knocking her water-bottle over in the process. It fell off the table, but Felicity caught it before it could crash onto the ground. Oliver's eyes settled on her. "You really have good reflexes."

Placing the bottle back on the table, she nodded. "Yes." That was all she wanted to say about her reflexes and why they were as good as they were. Their eyes met for the briefest moment and he answered with the hint of a nod.

He brought his fork back to his food. "So, Felicity, with reflexes like that: have you ever considered playing CoD?"

"What?"

"CoD, Call of Duty…." She should practically see uneasiness claim him, read it from the way he shifted in his seat. "A video game. I'm sorry, I should have known that's not your thing." He caught himself. "But since we're practicing small talk: what do you like to do? For fun?"

Fork in hand, she stared at him, contemplating that question. Nothing came to her, nothing but, "Shop?" As soon as the word left her lips, she grimaced. It was a pre-island answer and somehow it didn't feel right anymore, she wasn't that kind of girl, the girl whose hobby it was to spend money on clothes and other pointless stuff. She wasn't and she didn't want to be. "At least, that's what I'm supposed to say," she added, truthfully. "I don't…. I haven't had a lot of time for fun lately."

Again, he nodded slowly. Bringing his fork filled with spaghetti up, he said, "Maybe you should go and find yourself a new hobby. Do something that's fun to you now that you're back."

It was a suggestion spoken without any hesitation. Her last statement, the hint at her island-time had slipped her lips before she could stop herself. Normally, people reacted with pity or uneasiness and that managed to turn every conversation uncomfortable. But Oliver simply accepted the information. If anything he looked curious. He didn't make her feel awkward about her time away, maybe because he was a little uneasy himself.

A small smile showed on her face. "Yes, maybe I should do that." Something other than shooting arrows at people. "Do you have any suggestions? Apart from video gaming?"

Chewing slowly, he thought. "It's not exactly a hobby," he finally answered, "but going to the movies is always fun. There's a new Avengers in theatres."

"Avengers?" She frowned.

"Okay, maybe you should make brushing up on pop-culture your hobby for now." He forked through his spaghetti. "I could make you a list of must-sees." His blue eyes snapped from his pasta to her. "Even though you should probably ask somebody cooler. My list would be pretty nerdy."

"That's fine with me," she said. "I hear nerds became somewhat of a thing in the last five years."

He chuckled and a warm tingle rushed through Felicity. Something, a knot she hadn't even realized was there, loosened in her chest, untied by that unfamiliar sound. She had made somebody laugh—in a positive way. He wasn't laughing at her, but… for her. She turned back to her food, and finally noticed what she was doing. She was smiling—and it wasn't the first time in the last five minutes. All thanks to the man next to her, busy twirling spaghetti with his fork, freckling tomato sauce over his white shirt. She sent him another smile. Never had normal felt this good.


	4. Code breaker is my middle name

I'm delighted that so many of you enjoy this story. Thank you so much for all the positive feedback. I honestly can't thank you enough and it means the word to me!

A huge hug to **Albiona** who tightened the first part, because sometimes I'm just overly complicated.

I hope to update once more before 2015 ends, but I'm not sure if I'll be able to. I wish you a Merry Christmas [if you celebrate it] and a relaxing time filled with good food, good people, and overall goodness [in any case]. Feel loved, appreciated, and hugged, Jules.

* * *

 **'Code breaker' is my middle name**

The gunshots echoed through the night, ping-ponging between two long rows of metallic containers, and spread out from the docks over the nearby ocean. The flying sparks of bullets meeting metal followed the path of the hooded figure running on top of them, jumping from one to the next and finally down, taking cover. The men, holding their assault rifles in both hands, aimed where they had last seen their opponent. Touching the concrete ground, the vigilante kept running—back to where she had come from. Her feet hit without the barest sound, even though it didn't matter with the ruckus the Bratvas were making. The mobsters emptied their guns, wasting bullets with useless, showy mannerisms. (You could say what you wanted about the Triad, at least their members would do more than press a trigger and wave their guns around.)

Clicking sounded as three magazines emptied, signaling the ammunition had been completely wasted. Bow raised, the vigilante was around the nearest container before they could reload. The first arrow pierced through the leg of the huge guy furthest away. His baby-blue sweatpants darkened with the soaked-up blood as he crashed to the ground. His yell of pain distracted the two men still standing. Running, the vigilante jumped, pushed up from the side of a nearby container, and twirled, her foot connecting with the shoulder of the man closest to her. He stumbled to the side, nearly falling to the ground.

Felicity kept moving. Being smaller and weighing less than her opponents, it was all about using momentum, about being mindful of her surroundings, planning ahead, and using the advantages her greater agility gave her. She leaped around the second man while grabbing him, turning him in the process and directing him toward the man in the blood-soaked sweatpants, laying on the floor, raising his weapon. The reloaded bullets hit his mob brother square in the chest. The laying man fired relentlessly, a roar that sounded like fury tearing from his lungs. She let go of the dead body and its protection and, moving to the side quickly, surprised the shooting man.

Her bow was readied in the blink of an eye. The arrow pierced the mobster's shoulder, nailing him to the ground. His yell changed frequency when a second arrow entered his other shoulder, effectively pinning him down. The figure in tight green leather with a hood pulled deep into her face turned and sent another arrow on its way—through the firing arm of the stumbling man aiming at her. His weapon fell to the ground as the muscle was sliced by custom-made carbon fiber.

Another cry ripped through the air. Its remains were still billowing over the docks when a 'thud' followed—caused by the sole of the vigilante's foot connecting with the chest of the last man standing, causing him to stumble backward and double over. A fist tightly closed around a bow connected with a nose. A twirl later, her foot connected with his head, and the man sank to the ground.

Felicity gave herself a second to stare down on him and another to make sure all the men were knocked out or dead. She tied the hands of the survivors with zip ties before approaching the first container.

Using one of her explosive arrows, she got rid of the heavy lock and pulled the door open.

The container was filled with wooden crates. That was unexpected. She checked the next container, and the next, and the next, and all of them.

The shipment consisted of heavy weaponry.

That wasn't what she had come here for.

She had come for Eastern-European women forced into prostitution, shipped into the US as if they were cargo. Aggravation visible in her steps, she headed toward the nearest man, checking his pockets. The sounds of sirens came closer, proving that Starling City wasn't so far gone that gunfire didn't invite attention anymore. Moving quickly and efficiently, she searched all the mobsters, finding nothing relevant but a security fob. Pocketing it, she ran, disappearing between the containers. The hooded figured was swallowed by the darkness just as the police cars arrived.

* * *

Oliver Queen had never paid much attention to office gossip. The main reason for that was the complete lack of gossip material in the IT department—at least as far as traditional gossip went. Hunter thinking Windows 8 should be installed on every computer at Smoak International had generated a lot of talk (because that whole thing could only end in total disaster with all the noobs in all the other departments who couldn't even use Windows 7 properly). And there had been that heated debate about whether a new version of JavaScript was necessary or not. Stuff like that got Oliver's colleagues talking while the rest of SI gossiped about Clara from Accounting and Jimmy from PR hooking up in a storage room. Oliver knew neither Clara nor Jimmy and if they wanted to live the cliché—fine with him.

Honestly, Oliver didn't care.

Normally, he didn't.

Today was the first day the rumor mill spiked his interest, because according to well-informed sources (Max Kirkpatrick from Human Resources) the big bosses had finally decided who'd work in the new Applied Computer Sciences Department. All the positions had been filled and the chosen employees would be informed _today_.

It was a rumor, of course, but one creating tension within Oliver that was a mixture of hope and nerves. Gerry had said that Mrs. Smoak-Lance knew Oliver was the best person working in SI IT, but after mulling that over in his head for two weeks, Oliver wasn't sure what that meant.

Did that make him too valuable to be transferred into another department? Or did that make him too valuable to be held back by not transferring him?

If rumors were correct, he'd find out today.

In an effort to calm his nerves, Oliver had retreated to the terminal in the server room. The soft buzzing of the hard drives combined with the cool air of the air condition calmed him. Blue and green lights blinked around him, indicating that everything was working perfectly. His eyes fixed on the computer screen in front of him, he willed himself not to press the refresh button on his inbox. He had done so only 30 seconds ago and he didn't even know for sure if they would inform the transfers by email. Maybe they'd call. Or come see him. He had transferred his desk phone into the server room. His colleagues knew where he was—all ways to contact him to congratulate him on his new job and its new challenges were open.

Except nobody was using them.

Oliver felt his nerves get the better of him more and more, reducing the percentage of hopefulness as the tautness claiming him grew. He really, really wanted that job and he didn't know if—

Knocking startled him out of his thoughts. His eyes snapped away from the computer monitor (and his refreshing inbox) to the open door. They landed on Felicity Smoak. Knuckles connected with the door frame she stood there, looking somewhat uneasy. "Hi, Oliver. Is this a bad time?"

"No," the word passed his lips without second thought. "Not at all." Feeling like he needed to add a greeting, he added a rushed, "Felicity, hey."

She let her hand sink. Even though there were hints of a smile playing around her lips, she looked hesitant. He sat up straighter in his seat. "I didn't expect you," he admitted and couldn't help but ask, "Why are you here?"

Finally, she entered the room. She wore another pair of high heels, purple ones offset by her black and white dress, and Oliver couldn't help but think that she moved very gracefully, stopping in front of his desk. "That's a very direct question when I've thought of a good opening sentence."

Remembering their shared lunch, her small talk practice, Oliver understood the hint. It made his heart to do a little jump that was entirely unexpected. Those 30 minutes shared in the executive conference room had been surreal, in an "I have to be dreaming"-kind of way. Because it had been nice and after the first awkward moments it had been easy and… fun.

Felicity Smoak wasn't at all how Oliver had imagined. She was so much better, softer somehow, less in control than he had expected her to be, but quick-witted and just really, really nice. He couldn't help the (probably very dorky) grin showing on his face. "Oh? I'm all ears."

"So," she said, gesturing to the server cabinet taking up the entire wall behind Oliver, "this is the server room. Interesting."

Oliver tipped his head left and right, thinking. "That's average, I'd say. As far as opening sentences go, that's five out of ten stars. And that's generous."

"Why?" she asked. "It's a good conversational starter. It gives you the opportunity to say something about all…" she waved a hand, "this."

"Yeah," Oliver said, leaning back in his chair, "but I'd never do that, because I know I'd bore you with it. I learned my lesson not to geek out around non-believers. So, my official answer is: yes, this is the server room."

She sighed. "Great, that didn't go how I pictured it. At all." Her posture stiffening, she straightened her back a little more, making herself appear a bit taller. "To answer your question: I'm here to ask you for a favor."

"Okay…." His answer sounded dimly like a question and more suspicious than he had intended.

"I found a USB stick and I'd like to know what information's on there, but I can't seem to access it."

"You _found_ a USB?" he repeated, disbelieving.

"I did."

"Where?"

"I—" She hesitated. Her shoulders sank slightly. "I don't have a good answer."

He tipped his head, studying her. She seemed uneasy, but absolutely sincere and very serious. When she finally dared to meet his eyes, he couldn't help but anticipate that every word she'd say next were the absolute truth. "You're the only one I know who's really good with computers and who I trust enough to ask. I know that's weird. I tried to find a way to do it on my own, but I can't. Apparently, I was away from technology too long. But this is really important."

There was something in the way she said the last sentence that kept him from asking the question dancing on the tip of his tongue: _why_? He knew, if he asked her why this was really important, she wouldn't answer. And strangely, he could push down his curiosity about her favor, because maybe helping her with her important stuff might help him solve the much bigger and much more interesting mystery that was Felicity Smoak.

He only noticed that he was staring at her when she shifted her weight under his watchful eyes. "I know we're not favor-friends," she said. "We're not even friends-friends, I guess. But I'd appreciate your help." She lifted her right hand. Palm up, she gestured toward him. "Maybe, I could make it up to you with another lunch-date…." She flinched and hurried to clarify, "Date as in two not-yet-friends meeting."

Of course, God forbid they'd have a _date_ -date.

Oliver hated the instant pang of rejection the thought caused. Pressing his lips together, he held his hand out. Getting the hint, Felicity revealed that she had the USB in her left hand all this time, and placed a small black device into his out-stretched palm. "Thank you," she said.

He nodded and plugged the security fob in. The next twenty seconds told him that it weren't Felicity's five years away from technology keeping her from accessing the data on it. "This is military-grade encryption." His eyes snapped to Felicity, who frowned at him.

"You can't get to the information, either?"

He stared at her blankly for a few heartbeats. "You wound me." Pushing his glasses further up his nose, he placed his hands to the keyboard and his attention on the monitor. "'Code breaker' is my middle name." His fingers flew across the keys, his eyes glued to the lines of codes scrolling down the screen. Okay, whoever had encrypted the fob knew what he was doing, this was some badass coding. Oliver believed in giving credit when credit was due, but he also believed in not being bested in his field of expertise. His mind raced as his eyes danced over the commands, looking for the pressure point. "Gotcha!" Oliver didn't even notice the triumphant whisper leaving his lips, lost in his work, in his hacking, in the challenge it presented him.

"You're in?"

Felicity's voice coming from right next to him startled him. He hadn't noticed her move.

"Almost," he answered and added the few missing commands. The code vanished and, instead, files popped up on his screen. Studying them, he frowned. "Shipping documents."

Felicity exhaling sharply made him realize how close she was to him. Damn it, he needed to stop zoning out like that. "Do you know what of?" she asked, her hands on his desk, leaning in to study his monitor and the files displayed there.

The scent of her shampoo filled his nostrils. He couldn't name it, couldn't place the smell. It wasn't the sweet strawberry aroma his sister Thea always surrounded herself with and it was nothing like the coconut and vanilla choices his ex-girlfriends McKenna and Isabel preferred. Instead, it made him think of summer and sunshine—and neither of those should describe smells. But it was all he could think as he noticed that her long, blonde hair moved with the constant soft blowing of the air conditioning, making her look so—

She leaned closer to the screen and ripped him out of his musings. He felt caught—and relieved that she hadn't noticed him staring. Thank God! He didn't want her to think he was creepy. Actually, he didn't want to act like a creep.

He placed his attention back on the screen just as she said, "All those abbreviations: KJH. FST. OJK. Could be anything."

The documents consisted of tables and she was right: all those letters meant nothing to him, but the numbers in the front row told him a lot. He scanned them carefully before he pointed at one. "This one's different from all the others."

"What?" She looked at what he pointed. "Why?"

"Because those eight numbers are the only truly random ones. The others have too many fours to be random."

Hands still on his desk, she looked at him. "Too many fours?"

"Yes, whoever invented those numbers likes the number four."

"Invented?"

"Yeah, those aren't randomly generated numbers, I'm sure of it. The probability that randomly generated eight digit numbers contain the same number 25 percent of the time is…." He mulled the math over in his head, but before he was done, Felicity pointed at the monitor.

"So, you're saying that this line here is the only real one and the others were invented to hide it?"

He forgot about math and met her eyes. A question greeted him there, but he sensed that she wasn't questioning his statement but her own conclusion. She didn't doubt his words. She had told him that she trusted him and, apparently, she had complete trust in him, his abilities, and his expertise. She simply took his word. Oliver's heart beat a little quicker. Trying to mask that, he hurried to nodded. "Yes, that's what I think, too. Let me check the other documents."

There were four anomalies as far as Oliver could see. Felicity looked at them for some time. Her voice was quiet and careful when she finally said. "Those letters… could you check if they are shipping codes used at Starling City Harbor?"

That was hardly public information—but Oliver didn't even hesitate. He needed to finish this, needed to know the solution, because this was interesting, and if Oliver Queen was one thing, it was curious.

The server of Starling City Harbor didn't have a firewall worth its name. Not even three minutes later Oliver's eyes settled on Felicity, standing next to his chair. "You're right," he told her. "Those letters refer to four ships. Three are already unloaded, the forth arrived one hour ago and it about to be processed."

A certain determination wavered around Felicity. She nodded. "Can you print all that out?"

"Sure. Or I could just email it to you." That suggestion seemed to mentally trip her. She frowned at him—and he dared a wild guess. "You don't have an email address, do you?"

"Of course, I do." After a second she faltered a little only to admit. "I mean, I did. I had one. I think…. I might have five years of unanswered emails."

A small smile pulled at his face. "I'll just print it for you."

"Thank you, Oliver. I really appreciate your help."

Again, the urge to inquire, to poke for answers surged within him, but he fought it down. He had agreed to help without an explanation, he had to live up to his word. A few clicks later, he got up to go to the printer. Stepping back, she made way for him with a soft smile as he headed around the desk. He stopped near the door. "About lunch. Don't worry about that. I'm glad I could help you. You don't need to feel obliged to return a favor."

He felt the need to say it; he honestly didn't want a charity non-date-date.

To his surprise, her first reaction was a frown before he saw understanding take over. "Oh." Her tongue darted out to wet her upper lip—and he couldn't _not_ notice that gesture. "I didn't mean it like that," she continued, talking surprisingly fast, "not like payment for a favor. I'd really like to have lunch with you, as friends. If you're still interested after all…" she gestured to the computer monitor, "this."

"Oh." Caught by surprise, he swallowed. "Yeah, sure, I'd like that."

"Great. 'Course I'm interested, too." Her hair flowed around her face with the forceful jerk of her head, "In lunch. I'm interested in having lunch with you."

Of course, she had to stress that. Oliver brought his hand to the frame of his glasses, pushing them up.

Felicity tried a small smile. "I'll try to come up with a conversation opener that's at least six stars, maybe seven."

Oliver smiled. How was he supposed to say no to this? No to her?

* * *

Two hundred—that was a number that validated every risk. It was a number that assured Felicity, belatedly, that she had done the right thing in going to Oliver for help. She had debated that for many hours. Lying awake after failing to access the data on the USB device, she had tried to come up with an alternative, any alternative to involving Oliver Queen in her Arrow business. He was a smart man, highly intelligent and perceptive. Asking him for help was a risk—and it also was selfish, because he shouldn't be dragged into the danger and negativity of her nightly work.

But the only other cause of action she had come up with was capturing a member of the Bratvas and giving him personal insights in the talents China White had praised her so highly for.

Felicity had tortured and broken many men. It was part of the sins she had committed and could never atone for, no matter how hard she tried.

She had been touched by darkness many years ago and most of the time it felt like there wasn't a way for her to go back to the light.

But there wasn't any need to darken the shadows on her soul any more. Killing, torture—both had to be avoided if possible.

Involving Oliver Queen had granted her that possibility.

She was glad she had taken the chance. Because of his skills and his help, Felicity had freed two hundred underage girls tonight. Two hundred children, transported like cattle in metal boxes with little food and water, sitting in their own filth, destined to have their bodies sold to whoever was willing to pay.

Twenty would have been enough. Even one. But _two hundred_. Felicity wouldn't say she was happy about tonight, but she had to admit she felt positive. She had done a good thing today and not even her hurting left side could take away from that. A Bratva had swung a metal bar at her and she hadn't jumped back far enough. Changing in her cellar in the Glades, she had seen the bruise. It was pretty bad already, but she knew from experience that it would darken even more in the next hours and make moving in the next week (at least) unpleasant. She was ready for a shower and her bed.

Sadly, entering Smoak Mansion, her eyes landed on her mother and her mother's husband. They stood by the wooden staircase, obviously ready to go upstairs.

"Sweetie," Donna greeted her. "Did you have a nice night?"

"Yes," Felicity said—and it was only half a lie. "I went to see a movie." That was a full lie. "Avengers. Apparently, superheroes turned into a big thing while I was gone."

Quentin Lance huffed. "Yeah, apparently. Not only on screen."

A frown darkened Felicity's face. Suspicion mixing with a bad feeling claimed her. "What?"

"Quentin's upset because the Chief put him in charge of the anti-vigilante taskforce."

Felicity's posture stiffened involuntarily—and then she had to fight not to wince, because the movement really angered her bruise. "Oh," was all she felt like saying and then she was saved from having to add any more words by the ringing doorbell.

"It's past midnight," Donna said in surprise.

Felicity used the opportunity to turn away from the spouses, hiding that her heart had started drumming in her chest with the prospect of having Quentin Lance (a very good and very determined detective) at her heels. She opened the door.

Her heavily beating heart stopped its work for a second. She blinked, unable to believe what her eyes were showing her.

"Sweetie," she heard her mother's voice behind her, "who is it?"

Felicity couldn't acknowledge her mother. All she could do was stare at the blonde woman standing on her doorstep. Her brain told her that this wasn't possible. And then her lips moved and an awed whisper escaped her, "Sara?"


	5. Happily, I mean

I don't mean to go all sentimental on you, but being part of this amazing fandom certainly made the ending year special. It's been amazing getting to know so many of you. Thank you very much for your support, trust, and overall awesomeness. I wish you nothing but the best for 2016.

A tight hug for **Albiona** who made sure to get this chapter to me before going on a well-deserved vacation. Thank you for everything you did and do.

Have fun, however you celebrate into the new year. Love, Jules

* * *

 **  
Happily, I mean**

What were the chances of coming back from the dead— _twice_?

Probably not much smaller than coming back from the dead once. Second time's always easier, right?

Felicity blinked, trying to chase those weird contemplations away. She knew her thoughts were a jumbled mess, but she needed a second to process this, to accept that this was really happening, that Sara was really here. Sara, who had been sucked into the ocean when the Smoak family's yacht went down. She had been pulled out of Felicity's grasp, through a breach created by a gruesome storm, and Felicity had mourned her drowned best friend, only to find her on a dirty, cold, inhospitable freighter one year later.

Destiny had revealed its sick humor another year later when Sara had been sucked into the ocean through another hole in another boat. That time it had been created by a torpedo, and Felicity hadn't had much time to actually dwell on the awful irony of Sara's death because Slade Wilson had been hopped up on Mirakuru, ready to kill her. And then Felicity had somehow woken up in Moscow and… there just hadn't been enough time for grieving.

And now history was repeating itself, with Sara popping up most unexpectedly. It was a miracle, shocking in the best way possible. Felicity realized that she was staring at her best friend. Her mouth was opened slightly; after whispering best friend's name in awe she had never closed it.

Sara Lance stood on the stony doorstep of Smoak Mansion, looking entirely unfazed. "Hey, Fe."

"Sara?"

Quentin Lance managed to breathe that question in complete disbelief. Hearing the doubt and awe infused in just that one word ripped Felicity out of her stupid staring. She stepped to the side, revealing the threshold to the huge eyes of Sara's father. "But," he stammered, "how's this possible? You're dead."

That finally got a reaction from Sara: her stony face slipped, her eyes softened, and her voice cracked a little when she said, "Dad."

"I can't believe this." Quentin Lance sounded completely overwhelmed, unable to process.

"It's really me," Sara assured. Felicity heard the tremble in the other woman's voice, saw the slight shaking of her hands before Sara closed them into fists.

Two heartbeats of heavy silence followed. Donna Smoak-Lance took one step toward the door. Having experienced her own daughter coming back from the dead, she was probably best equipped to handle this situation, but Quentin Lance shook of his shock off one moment before his wife could say something. "My girl," he breathed and practically ran the few steps separating them to engulf Sara in a tight hug.

Felicity stepped back, away from the door and to her mother whose eyes were moist with unshed tears and whose lips were curved into a moved smile. Donna placed an arm around Felicity's shoulder, squeezing and sending her own daughter silent support.

Felicity's heart was equally heavy and light as she watched father and daughter. Sara was wrapped up in Quentin's arms, nearly disappearing in the embrace. Her face was pressed against his chest. Her hands fisted the back of her father's shirt. The way her body shook told Felicity that her friend was crying silent tears. The only thing audible was Quentin's steady whisper of "My girl. My Sara." His voice was hoarse as tears spilled out of his eyes. There was so much desperation in the way they clung to each other, creating a quivering bundle of nerves. Fear to accept this as real coated the air.

Felicity remembered this. Her mom had held her like that. Too tight. As if Felicity would've disappeared if she let go.

A lump grew in Felicity's chest, created by the memory of her own homecoming, fed by the joy that her best friend was alive and here but there was also a shadow darkening the positivity, fueled by questions Felicity couldn't stop from assaulting her mind: how could Sara be back? How had she survived? Where had she been? What had she done? And—most of all—why was she back?

Her own experiences triggered those questions, Felicity knew—and hated it, hated the shadow she cast over her friend's return. But five years taught her to be wary: there wasn't such a thing as coincidence, and happiness never lasted long.

Minutes passed until Quentin dared to let go. Sara's hands untangled from his shirt and she stepped back, instantly avoiding his eyes. Felicity noticed, because she knew first-hand the difficulty of meeting the eyes of somebody you fear might see right through you. But Sara straightened up in the next moment, stiffening her posture, squaring her shoulders, making herself as tall as possible. Again: that was a trick Felicity, being smaller than many women and most men, knew first-hand.

Quentin didn't seem to notice, though. He needed a moment to wipe tears away and gather himself. Inhaling deeply, he placed an arm around his daughter and finally allowed her past the threshold of the mansion, directing her into the huge foyer. "Come in, come in," he urged with an audible, emotional quiver. Closing the door, he led Sara toward the two women standing in the hall. "Sara, you remember Felicity's mother Donna?"

"I do." Sara's voice was small, smaller than Felicity remembered it to be.

Donna Smoak-Lance ignored Sara's offered hand and instead went in for the hug. It was a little too much, Felicity thought, but this was her mother—Donna often went a little over-the-top when emotions got the best of her. Thankfully, she only embraced Sara for a moment. She beamed at her husband's daughter, holding on to her shoulders. "Sara, I'm so glad you're here with us." She let her hands sink and turned to Quentin. "It's a miracle." She looked at Felicity, tears swimming in her eyes, "The second one."

"Yes," Quentin agreed, his voice breaking again. The sound made Sara's eyes snap to the marble floor while her father brought his arm around her, pulling her closer to his body and kissing her temple.

"Since you found your way here, I take it you know about your father and me." That was typical Donna Smoak, too. It was one of the reasons why this woman was CEO of a multi-billion dollar company: she could look at things and draw the right conclusions.

Felicity had concluded the same thing. She had also noticed that Sara must have somehow slipped past the extensive security surrounding Smoak Mansion. Felicity filed that away for later analyzing, because right now her whole attention was caught by the fact that Sara's eyes landed on her while she said, "Yes, I heard about your wedding. Congratulations."

"Sara—" Her father started, but his daughter shook her head quickly.

"No," she said somewhat forcefully. "I'm really glad that you found somebody you're happy with." Taking her eyes off Felicity, she glanced at her dad. "I mean it."

Felicity's heart was speeding up a little bit. There wasn't any hostility in her friend's even voice, but she was trying to tell Felicity something, and there was an accusatory air to all of this and it rubbed Felicity the wrong way. She met her friend's eyes, struggling to find the right words when Quentin Lance spoke up again.

Tightening the grip on his daughter's shoulder, he asked, "All those years…. Sara, where were you? All those years?"

Immediately, Sara's eyes fled from Felicity's, once more taking huge interest in the floor. The calm challenge she had thrown Felicity's way vanished as awkwardness took over. "I—" she stopped, swallowing heavily.

Seeing her friend (who was technically her stepsister) struggle, Felicity finally found her voice back, "Were you on an island, like me?"

It was an alibi, a story to stick to, but Sara swatted it away. Her tired eyes landed on Felicity again as she asked, sounding tired, "Is that where you were? On an island?"

"Yes."

"The whole time?"

Felicity's heart beat heavier once more. "Yes."

Thoughtfully, Sara nodded. "Okay."

"Sara, baby," Quentin urged again, "whatever it is, you can tell me." Hearing that, Sara gave a negative head-shake that seemed entirely unintentional and also like a rejection of her father's assurance. He didn't let that dissuade him. "Where were you?"

Donna Smoak-Lance had never urged her daughter to talk about her five years away. But it seemed like Quentin Lance wasn't so willing to let things slide.

"I—" Again Sara stopped. She visibly gathered herself to finally settle for, "It's a long story." That statement sounded like both a dismissal and an admittance that she wanted to share her story.

"I have time," Quentin said.

Uneasily, Sara shifted her weight away from her father, his hand finally falling from her shoulder. "I don't feel like getting into it tonight."

"That's no—"

Donna Smoak-Lance stopped her husband from finishing that sentence, cutting in, "That's okay." Pinning Quentin down with a stare, keeping him from snapping at her as everybody knew he wanted to, she repeated, more pointedly, "That's _okay_." She turned back to Sara, a sad but comforting smile around her lips. "You're with us now and that's all that matters." Another unspoken objection by Quentin Lance was already coating the air. Donna, again, stopped it before he could even start, "It's all that matters _tonight_."

Quentin pursed his lips and swallowed all the words dancing on tip of his tongue. "Fine," he finally said. "For tonight, I'll let it go." He smiled fondly at Sara, "I'm just glad you're home."

Donna smiled at her husband. "Quentin, it seems like we raised survivors."

"Yes," he agreed, his gaze never wavering from Sara. "We did."

* * *

The Smoak-Lances were early risers.

Quentin always got up at seven to sing Frank Sinatra tunes while shaving (it turned into mumbling when the razor came close to the mouth area), enjoy a hefty breakfast while reading the newspaper, and complain about the major or the DA or the Police Commissioner. ("What do those paper pushers know about the situation out in the field? Nothing! All they care about is their next election!") He left the house at eight to drive his wife to work in his well-kept but well-used car, and was sitting at his own desk at the station at 8:30.

Donna always got up at 6:30 to welcome the day with thorough stretching that turned into Yoga. She'd join her husband's singing while in the shower and then take over the bathroom to do her make-up and hair. During her breakfast, consisting of fruit and green tea, she'd check her calendar, sometimes already sending her EA notes from her phone (she could work that like a pro—unlike her computer), and listen to her husband's complaining with one ear. And she was listening, because she always asked when she heard something that might impact Smoak International.

Felicity usually got up around 5:30. She had trouble sleeping most nights. Nightmares ripped her out of her sleep regularly, and in the previous five years she had gotten used to little sleep. Sleeping was time spent unconscious, which meant unprotected. Sleep was a luxury she couldn't dare to indulge if she wanted to stay alive. Even though she knew she was safe in Smoak Mansion, she hadn't been able to break the habit. And Felicity enjoyed the quiet mornings in her childhood home. She enjoyed jogging through the grounds stretching out behind the house, witnessing the sun rise while the birds sang and a new day started, bringing familiar sounds, smells, views that couldn't differ more from Lian Yu, Moscow, and Hong Kong. With all of it came the knowledge that she was home. It was a peaceful hour. Even though her solitude regularly turned into loneliness during the day, starting the day like this gave her the strength to get through the up-coming hours.

Turns out Sara got up even earlier.

Or maybe she hadn't slept at all.

Felicity couldn't blame her; during her first night home she hadn't been able to find rest either.

Sara stood by the counter, a mug in both hands, as Felicity entered the kitchen. The women's eyes met briefly. A certain uneasiness lurked behind Sara's gaze. She tried to hide it, but it was unmistakable, and awfully familiar, to Felicity. But finding it on Sara's face, finding her so strangely guarded, threw Felicity. Why did Sara feel like she had to pretend with her? With the person who was her best friend since high school. Who she had failed math class with. Who she had laughed, partied, and grown up with. And who she had spent one year on (and in, very much _in_ ) Purgatory with. Tentatively, Felicity continued into the room, deciding you could never go wrong with most basic politeness. "Good morning."

Sara nodded. "Morning." She took a sip of her coffee, lowering her head, making sure her blonde, wavy hair fell around her face and shielded her from Felicity's eyes.

The island stood between them—or islands. In the most literal form the kitchen island separated them. Metaphorically the despicable piece of earth, forest, rock, and horror called Lian Yu might be a creating a gap as well, even though Felicity didn't really know why. Before Sara had been swept away from her the second time, they had been good—as good as you could be when you are struggling to survive in a hostile environment and fighting a battle against super-strength crackpots you aren't equipped, trained, or ready for. But back then they had been a team.

Now they were just awkward.

Resting her hands on the marble worktop, Felicity looked at her friend, trying to come up with something good to say, but all that came to her was, "What happened?"

Sara swallowed the sip of coffee and carefully set the mug down onto the counter next to her. Only then did she seem ready to raise her head again and answer the question. "I was rescued by another ship. It belonged to a secret agency. I stayed with them until now."

That sounded so familiar to Felicity. Realization clicked, "You decided to come home."

Something flared in Sara's blue eyes. Her shoulders squared. "I would've never dared to, but then all of a sudden you did it."

Felicity felt like the sentence slapped her in the face. The angry gleam in Sara's eyes told her that that had been the intention. Still, Felicity was too stunned, too shocked to do anything but whisper in realization, "You heard."

Sara nodded. "I thought if you came back after Hong Kong, so could I."

The shock multiplied, freezing the blood in Felicity's veins. Her face hardening, she stared at the other woman, more force creeping into her voice. "You know about Hong Kong?"

With another nod Sara crossed her arms over her chest, shielding herself before adding, "The Triad, Fe. Really?"

Shame filled Felicity, because… yes, that was the darkness she could never shake, the ugly she couldn't cover up, the guilt that weighed her conscious down like lead. But suddenly a totally different thought popped up, shining a light on what was left unsaid. "How do you know about that?"

Instantly, Sara avoided eye-contact, her arms tightened over her chest.

The frozen blood within Felicity started to boil. "You knew where I was?" The expression ghosting over Sara's face told Felicity everything she needed to know. "You let me believe you were dead, for _years_!"

"It's not that simple," Sara defended. Offense turned into defense within a heartbeat. All accusation left her posture, her voice, chased by a distant hint of pleading.

It was lost on Felicity. Anger had a tight grip on her. It grew along with her volume as she said, "I thought I lost you— _again_! When it was my idea to get on that boat to begin with. I was so—" The anger tearing at Felicity made her lose her voice. Her hands clenched into fist, balling up at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. For a few forceful heartbeats, feeling like a heavy drum within her, all she could do was stare at the woman she had fought for survival with, who had been like a sister before becoming a stepsister. The betrayal and anger still collecting inside her made her breathe heavily. "You should've let me know you were _alive_! Instead of _judging me_!"

"Felicity," Sara openly pleaded, then tried to soften her friend by adding her pre-island nickname, "Fe, it wasn't like that. Really, it wasn't."

Sara took a step toward her, but Felicity stepped back simultaneously, shaking her head, the high ponytail she always sported while jogging swinging behind her. She needed distance. The anger clawing at her was familiar. It made her even more furious and she nearly shook with rage. In a helpless attempt to let off some of the pressure, Felicity's hand swung out and hit the fruit bowl standing on the kitchen island. The delicate glass fell to the floor, shattering into tiny pieces with a loud burst, apples and oranges rolling over the tiles, spreading out.

Didn't help. At all.

The anger hadn't dissolved. All she had done was fall into her old habits of awful anger management. Felicity tried to control her breathing, get a grip, but she couldn't do that here with Sara standing there, looking at her like that. Forcing out, "I need some air." With heavy steps she headed toward the huge glass doors leading to the grounds. Sara didn't try to stop her.

* * *

Oliver Queen was late. He mostly was, because he had a tendency to get lost in his work and his thoughts and forget the time.

Today his lateness was absolutely not his fault. In fact, he had kept a very close eye on the clock, because being late for this wasn't an option.

It wasn't, until Mrs. Smoak-Lance tried to operate her computer.

Reinstalling her audio software had taken Oliver thirty minutes.

Ten minutes late, he ripped the door to the Thai restaurant open. Dark wood greeted him, covering the walls with delicate carvings of flowers and females. Glancing around the room, he searched for a sign of Felicity. She wasn't by the bar. Maybe she was already seated at one of the tables, covered with red tablecloths, embroidered with gold. Oliver didn't know if he wanted her to be there or not. Because as much as he didn't want to have made her wait, he hated the thought of sitting in this fancy restaurant all by himself—only to be potentially stood up.

He had hurried the whole way from Smoak International. It wasn't that far, because he had told Felicity he couldn't drive across town during his lunch break, but the five minute very fast walk was proof that he wasn't exactly in great shape. He was out of breath, a little sweaty, and flustered—which was just _not_ good for a non-date-date with a girl he found… fascinating.

A woman wearing a long, green dress caught his attention, greeting him with a polite smile and a small bow. In his slightly unsettled state he mimicked the bow before he knew what he was doing. He took a deep breath. "Smoak," he said, since Felicity had reserved the table.

The hostess spared him from having to say anything else with another smile. "Yes, Miss Smoak is already here. Please, this way."

He followed her to a quiet table in the back of the restaurant, away from the windows, shielded from most prying eyes. Oliver always enjoyed sitting by the windows in restaurants (or burger joints, or whatever), getting some natural light, being able to glance outside, but he could imagine why Felicity Smoak preferred secluded privacy. She glanced up from her phone when the hostess neared her table; she looked relieved.

"I'm sorry," Oliver said quickly, sinking down on the chair opposite her. "Something came up at work."

"It's okay," Felicity sent him a smile that looked a little pressed to Oliver; it was just the barest lifting of the corners of her mouth, no traces of it visible in her serious eyes. The waiter replaced the hostess, handing them menus, and nodding to their request of "Just a water, please". Nodding, the waiter slipped away.

Hiding behind his menu, Oliver realized that he hadn't properly greeted her—belatedly he was kind of glad about his lacking manners, because he didn't have the slightest idea what an appropriate greeting was: a handshake was too formal and a hug much too personal. He decided that simply plopping down in his chair was probably impolite but the best option to start a casual lunch meeting between two not-yet-friends.

"I think I'll try the Kaeng khiao wan," Felicity stated and the way she pronounced the Asian words made him look at her over his menu. That sounded very… legit. Not at all how he'd say it, but probably how it was supposed to be said.

Noticing that she had noticed his staring, he hurried to say, "What's that?"

"Coconut curry with green chili."

He contemplated that choice. "No, doesn't sound like me."

"It's very good if you like spicy food."

"Oh, you've eaten here before?"

For the barest moment Felicity hesitated. "Yes."

"So, what can you recommend?" Oliver placed his attention back on the menu. "Something not too spicy."

"Try the chicken curry."

"Sold." Without any further thought, Oliver closed his menu just as the waiter returned with their waters. Felicity ordered for both of them and then reached for her glass.

Oliver couldn't help but feel like something was different, off. Felicity seemed distracted, like she might be here physically but not mentally. Maybe, Oliver reasoned, she regretted inviting him to lunch, being seen with a slightly sweaty, out-of-shape guy. Or, maybe, she was mad at him for making her wait.

He cleared his throat. "I'm very sorry. There was a last minute computer problem." In an effort to lighten the mood he said, "I should add 'personal computer fixer of Mrs. Smoak-Lance' to my job title." Realizing that this might not sound too good to the daughter of Mrs. Smoak-Lance, he hurried to add, pushing up his glasses, "Happily, I mean."

Finally a real smile showed on her face. Before she had been faking, just lifting of the corners of her mouth, but this was a smile that made his heart beat faster. Her shining eyes rested on him. "I doubt it."

Deciding it was safer not to comment any further on all of _that_ , he chose to switch directions. "It doesn't matter anyway. I'm transferring to a new department. Applied Computer Sciences. I'm really excited about that."

"That's great," she said sincerely, "congratulations."

"Thanks." He smiled.

"So," she sat stiffly in her chair, "tell me about your new job."

He opened his mouth to inform her in great detail about the wonders he planned on coding in the name of technological process when another thought hit him. He smirked. "Look at you, nailing the small-talk. That was a nine out of ten."

"Come on! That's worth ten out of ten."

"No," he objected, "because you've opened up the potential for a long rant about stuff you don't care about."

"Maybe I care about it when you say it," she challenged.

A flutter rushed through Oliver's chest. She had just said that, hadn't she? It left him kind of speechless, but luckily Felicity kept on talking.

"I think the main problem might be that I won't understand a thing."

Maybe he had read too much into that sentence, Oliver realized—it was a very disappointing realization. He nodded. "That's why I keep from telling people about that stuff. It drags any conversation down."

She nodded understanding. He could practically see her dig her brain for an answer to keep the conversation going, and he could see her failing. Oliver realized that his attempt to hide the level of his nerdy-ness from her had backfired. His determination not to drag the conversation down had killed it. She looked somewhat lost and reached for her water again, sending him another one of those fake, barely there smiles, and suddenly the feeling that there was something off about her was back. He couldn't place it, couldn't name it. He didn't know her well enough to do either, but it was a suspicion tugging at the edge of his consciousness.

He gathered all his courage and asked, "Felicity, are you okay?"

Surprised, for a moment she simply looked at him and, finally, the stiff tension left her body. She shrunk on her seat, her shoulders slumping forward a little. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm not very good company today. I mean, I guess I'm mostly not, but today is worse."

"Why?"

"It's a family thing."

"Oh." Now it was him straightening up. Yeah, that was probably something she didn't want to discuss with her mother's personal computer fixer. And he didn't have the slightest idea what to say to that—he wasn't really good with the emotional stuff. His ex, McKenna, had reminded him of that very often until she had accepted the new job in Gotham's Police Department. The only comforting thing he could think of to say to Felicity was lame, but for the lack of better options, he said it anyway. "I'm sure it'll be okay."

Her answer was a nod and silence. Her pale blue eyes rested on him. There was something visible in them Oliver couldn't place and he didn't have the slightest idea what she was thinking. How could he? He didn't know her and what he knew turned her into an even greater mystery, but somehow it angered him that he couldn't read her better in this situation.

He was about to offer to tell her about his new position in the ACSD, just to get a conversation going, when she leaned forward in her seat. "Do you know who Sara Lance is?"

Oliver swallowed; everybody in Starling City knew. There wasn't a rock big enough to live under not to know. He nodded.

Felicity's tongue darted out to wet her upper lip (and he needed to stop noticing that!). "She's alive."

"What?" He blinked. "But she was on that boat with you."

Felicity nodded. "I thought she was dead. For _years_. I was _sure_ she died. And then she rings our doorbell last night." Her eyes snapped to his and he saw how sincere she was about her next words, "And it's good that she isn't dead. Of course. Very good. But this whole thing's thrown me for a loop—and I just realized that it's really inappropriate to dump all this on you."

"I don't mind," Oliver said and found that he honestly meant it.

"That's good, because being inappropriate with you seems to be my thing." She gave a little jerk of her head, closing her eyes for an instant. "As proven by that sentence."

Oliver bit back a smile because she was so distraught that smiling seemed… inappropriate. "Your stepfather must be happy," Oliver offered to get back to the topic at hand.

"Yes," she smiled, emotion softening her face. "Very."

He returned the smile, but turned serious quickly. "Where was she all those years?"

"She didn't say last night and this morning we—" A certain sadness seemed to take over, but she fought it back, squaring her shoulders again. "One would think we'd bond over returning from the dead. Turns out we really _didn't_. And it's my fault."

"Why?"

She scratched her forehead, uneasily. "I—" She searched for words, settling for, "I didn't want to talk."

"I think you should," Oliver offered. "You both came back from the dead. That's a lot to deal with. I'm sure you both just need time. Plus, she might be the only one who can grasp what you went through on that island."

"Yes," she said carefully. "That's true." They fell silent, but this time it wasn't uncomfortable. He could sense Felicity mulling his words over in her head and it was actually kind of nice that she considered his advice with such seriousness.

This time when she looked up and their eyes met, he was sure he saw honest appreciation in them. "Thank you for listening to me."

"Of course. I'm thankful that you trust me with such personal things."

She smiled, honestly. "You're really good with the emotional stuff, Oliver."

He didn't get to answer as the waiter stepped to their table, serving food, but he honestly thought that that last sentence was the most outrageous thing she had ever said to him.


	6. I need some air means I don't wanna talk

Happy New Year, you wonderfully amazing people. I know I'm late. Real life managed to knock me out, starting 2016 off just _great_. Despite the delay, I wish you nothing but the best for the upcoming months. Thank you so much for the wonderful comments you sent my way. They were ten out of ten on my personal scale of awesomeness and really mean a lot to me.

Talking about meaning a lot to me: **Albiona** does, too. She also gets full awesomeness-marks.

Now it's time for Felicity Smoak to listen to Oliver Queen's advice on how to handle emotions. Sounds ridiculous, I know. I hope it'll work for you anyway. ;) Happy reading.

* * *

 **'I need some air' means 'I don't want to talk'**

The alley next to the old Smoak International steel factory lay abandoned. The loaded silence of a place once filled with life, now deserted, was only disturbed by the faint sounds of traffic, carried over by the wind. The security panel was perfectly hidden, its cover blending in with the rest of the wall seamlessly. Everything was how it was supposed to be, nothing was out of place.

So there was no explainable reason for the alarm sounding within Felicity.

That didn't silence the mental bells ringing. At all.

Wariness claimed Felicity. A certain sense for danger she had acquired in the previous five years told her that something was up, different, potentially wrong, without the slightest hint at what that something might be.

Felicity trusted her instincts—they had kept her alive multiple times—but standing in the alley for another minute wouldn't reveal anything new. Positioning herself right in front of it, she slid the cover hiding the panel away and punched in the three numbers of her security code.

Entering her hideout proved that Felicity was right to trust her instincts: something was really off, but that something wasn't outside—somebody had entered her cellar.

On autopilot Felicity's muscles flexed but relaxed nearly instantly as the familiar 'clank' of metal hitting metal gave her a very good idea who had entered her secret space. Again, senses she couldn't define told her that if a fight was ahead, it would be verbal.

Felicity walked toward the sound. Rounding a corner, her suspicions were confirmed: Sara Lance was going up the salmon ladder. Wearing only a black sports bra and black yoga pants, the other woman showed off her flexing abs as she worked out, not giving any indication that she noticed the company. Felicity walked around the desk and leaned against it, crossing her arms in front of her chest, watching Sara bring the metal rod down from the top row and back up, all the way to the top.

Holding on to the rod with both hands, hanging there, Sara finally met Felicity's eyes. "So," she said, "we're really doing this? Power-playing each other, waiting to see who craves and speaks up first?"

"Seems like it," Felicity answered. "Seems like you gave up first. But since you made sure you're looking down on me, I guess we're even."

The women stared at each other for another moment. This time it was Felicity breaking eye-contact with an audible sigh. It prompted Sara to flex her muscles again. Rod in hand, she landed on the concrete ground with a loud 'thud' and said, "I know that your 'I need some air' means 'I don't want to talk,' but I hoped you'd cooled down enough for us to… figure some things out."

Felicity knew Sara was right. They had to talk, clear some things up. The advice Oliver had given her during lunch resonated within her: there was an invisible connection between Sara and herself created by ten years of pre-island friendship, one year of shared horror on Lian Yu, and returning from the dead. Seeing Sara salmon-laddering was more than enough proof that her friend had, like Felicity, come home changed.

Straightening, letting her hands fall to her sides, Felicity gave up her defensive stance. "Yes, consider me as cooled down as possible." She gestured around the room. "It seems like you know everything about me already, so why don't you go first?"

"Fe," Sara's voice was tired and small. Standing under the metal bars of the salmon ladder, she looked at the other woman, unmoving. The gap between them could be crossed in four, five steps, but it felt like a canyon separated them.

"Where were you?" Felicity knew her slightly raised voice vibrating with anger did nothing to ease the mood, to lift the tension and make this easier, but she couldn't help it. The feeling of betrayal that had forced her to rush out of the kitchen this morning returned. All the negativity that lunch with Oliver chased away was back and it was an emotional onslaught Felicity wasn't used to anymore.

Sara took a deep breath and said, calmly, "I spent the last three years working for A.R.G.U.S."

"Never heard of it."

"Originally, I was told it was a secret government agency, but I think it's so secret that most of the government doesn't know about it. It does the dirty work for those who do the dirty work." Silence followed. Each moment it lingered, it filled with unspoken _dirty_ baggage. The surprise of it knocked some of the anger out of Felicity. Maybe Sara noticed her friend's minimal softening because she continued, her voice timid, "I was sure Slade killed you, Fe. I was sure I was the only one who'd gotten off that damn freighter alive. So, yeah, I was surprised to find you in Hong Kong, a member of the Chinese Triad."

"That—" Felicity swallowed, heavily. "Wasn't my best decision." Another weighted silence followed, and this time Sara seemed to grasp the magnitude of everything left unsaid.

"Believe me, I understand signing on with the wrong people in dire situations."

Without thinking about it, Felicity took a step toward Sara. "How did you end up with them?"

"The torpedo that China White used to blow a hole into the Amazo… it…." Sara's voice died, the sentence dissolved into nothing and ended in another deafening silence. It lasted for a heartbeat and another. Sara ended it by bending down abruptly, pulling her pants up, revealing her left leg and burnt skin, badly scarred from her ankle to way above the knee. A cold sensation rushed through Felicity. In her uneasiness, her tongue darted out, wetting her upper lip.

"I was lucky I was pulled out of the hole into the ocean. The water prevented me from burning, but there was the downside of nearly drowning."

Felicity's eyes snapped up to meet Sara's. "Wow, that must've hurt." Felicity heard the sentence leaving her lips and hated it. Somebody who had her own impressive collection of scars should have a better reaction to other people's. It wasn't a very calming or compassionate thing to say, but it was the result of Felicity's own experiences, because the scars covering her torso and her back were memories of immense pain, torture, battle wounds—of failure.

A snort escaped Sara. "Yeah! It hurt like hell. The right leg's not as bad, but bad enough. There was a time I wished I was dead." She let go of the black cloth in her hand, letting it fall down again, covering her leg.

"I can imagine." And, really, Felicity could.

"An A.R.G.U.S. ship fished me out of the water. One of their medics nursed me back to health. I was off my legs for months. Somehow physical therapy turned into training and somehow I ended up with Task Force X." Sara tightened her grip around the metal rod of the salmon ladder she was still holding in her right. "It's nicknamed the 'Suicide Squad.'"

"Because they're sent when a mission's most likely deadly?" Felicity guessed.

"Yes, and because the members have bombs in their spines that will be detonated if they don't obey."

"You…." Felicity had to swallow again, even though her throat was dry. "You have a bomb in your spine?"

"No. I was messed up enough to sign on freely." All Felicity was capable of doing was stare at the other woman, who added, her voice hoarse, "I looked into the eyes of a she-devil and I gave her my soul for the feeling of being part of something, for not being alone. I spent two years killing without remorse."

"So did I."

"No, Felicity, you didn't." A sad smile showed on Sara's face. "I discovered you were alive when you disarmed a bomb in a Casino."

Felicity knew what her friend was talking about immediately. That had been a very memorable night—in the worst way possible. Still, Felicity couldn't just accept Sara's words, she had to remind her. "An illegally run Triad casino."

"That doesn't change the fact that you kept people alive whose only crime was being in an illegal casino. You kept them from being killed by a bomb I helped putting there."

"What?!"

"The woman in charge of A.R.G.U.S., Amanda Waller, wanted China White dead—she didn't care if fifty others had to die along with her. She's never been bothered by the body count."

"Why didn't you reach out after that? We—"

"We _what_ , Felicity?" Sara cut in and looked at her challengingly. "Could meet for a pizza? Catch up? Compare scars and killing techniques?" She took an angry step toward her friend. "I was protecting you. It was important to keep you off Waller's radar. If she saw talent in you, you would've ended up with a bomb in your spine. It was best if you thought I was dead."

"Oh?" Felicity mocked, feeling an angry irritation. "Who are you to decide what's best for me? And if it's best everybody believes you're dead, why are you here?!"

"Because you're selfish enough to come back home, to our parents who went on with their lives. They found happiness with each other. You're complicating their lives, endangering them. And don't even let me get started on the bullshit that's this Arrow business."

"And _what_?" Felicity snapped, voice rising. "That made you want to be selfish, too?"

"Made me want to strangle you!"

The women glared at each other, but Sara broke eye-contact quickly, her hand closing around the rod so tightly that her knuckles protruded. All fight left her in the blink on an eye and she suddenly looked tired. "But, yeah: it made me want to be selfish, too. It made me homesick and it made me jealous. Waller noticed that something was up and that's why I ran, before she decided that I needed to be motivated by a bomb implant."

As Felicity stared at the other woman only one truth filled her: she couldn't be judgmental about any of this. Not her, not with her own body count, her own list of horrible decisions. Not when Sara was right: coming home was selfish. Lying to everybody about being on the island for five years was selfish. Putting on the hood of a dead woman was selfish. All of that was founded in what Felicity wanted, _needed_ to do. And suddenly another truth filled Felicity. "I'm glad you decided to come home before you couldn't make that choice anymore."

Sara smiled sadly. "I feel like it was a mistake." Seeing the unspoken question, she shrugged, uneasy. "My dad'll ask questions. He won't let this go. Do you honestly think he'll still love me when he finds out what I did? How I broke into people's homes and killed them in their sleep, because an obscure organization labeled them dangerous?"

"Yes." There wasn't the slightest doubt within Felicity. "I honestly believe that. You're his daughter, he's your dad. He will always love you." Felicity took another step toward her friend. "I think he wouldn't like me much anymore if he found out about my Triad-past—or that I'm the vigilante his chief wants him to catch."

Sara looked at her friend shortly. "I even get why you're doing it."

Felicity noticed the sudden subject-change but played along. "I have the skills, I need to use them for something useful for once."

"I said, I get it."

The eyes of the two women connected once again and Felicity saw real understanding in her friend's eyes. She also saw pain and vulnerability she recognized too well. It was that recognition that made Felicity take the last step to her friend and pull her into a hug. Sara actually stiffened before relaxing into her friend's embrace and returning it. "I'm glad you're not dead," Felicity whispered before she could stop herself.

Sara huffed out a laugh. "I'm glad you're not dead, too."

Both tightened their grip for a moment, sending silent encouragement. Finally, they let go. Felicity's eyes were swimming with tears, just like Sara's. Felicity cleared her throat. "You know," she said and motioned to the empty space on the other side of the room, "for now we could just be selfish together. It's a little lonely down here and I wouldn't mind some company."

The hint of a smirk showed on Sara's face. "You didn't seem lonely to me during lunch. What's the deal with Tubby?"

"Tubby?"

"The dude you had lunch with."

"Oliver? He's not tubby. He's perfectly fine and c—" Felicity's brain caught up with her mouth as her ears told her what that sounded like. "He's just a friend. We're just friends," she concluded and moved around the table. "Let's spar." Felicity could practically see the smirk on Sara's face even though she had her back to her. Keeping her face deliberately even, Felicity turned, challenging, "If you dare."

"Oh," Sara said, letting go of the rod in a cocky gesture, causing it to clatter on the ground, "I dare. Because if there's one thing I actually know how to do right, it's this."

Felicity nodded and mumbled, "That makes two of us."

* * *

Oliver Queen never paid much attention to the SI's rumor mill.

Sadly, the rumor mill had started to pay attention to him.

Passing the employee checkpoint this morning, scanning his badge and walking through the metal detector had brought his first clue: the way the security guard looked at Oliver had been strange. Normally, security only spared you a glance if the scanner was acting up again. (It did regularly, but Carrie was usually sent to fix it because she knew its coding in her sleep.) So, getting an once-over, a curious stare, and an amused smirk had been so unusual that Oliver couldn't help but notice. The elevator ride had been even worse. The cabin was crammed with people trying to get to their desks on time, but nobody had said a thing.

Dead silence in an overly crowded elevator housing the always-talking Mills twins?

Oliver's common sense had been tingling by the time they reached the tenth floor.

Carrie Cuttler had been the one to reveal the reason behind the staring, the silence, and the awkwardness as soon as he sat down at his desk. Leaning against his doorframe, she had looked down at him and drawn out a "Sooooooo…." That was enough to annoy Oliver, because it was Carrie's way of starting conversations that never held much appeal to Oliver (mostly along this lines of: 'Sooooo, how about dinner on Friday?'). This time the question following the introduction was equally unpleasant but entirely unexpected. "What's the deal with you and little Smoak?"

Apparently, somebody had seen Oliver and Felicity at that Thai restaurant yesterday.

Apparently, they had looked "very familiar with each other"—Carrie's words, not his. Very much _not_ his words.

Oliver had tried to dismiss it with a, "What? Felicity? No, we're just friends."

He had made it worse.

The way Carrie's face crumpled had showed him that instantly. She, obviously, hadn't believed the rumor to be true and his dismissal had somehow, kind of, confirmed it. Carrie, the redhead pestering him for a date for six months, lost the smile instantly and exchanged it with a glare. "I'm disappointed in you," she huffed, in hurt exaggeration, "that's what you're into: rich, blonde bitch?!"

The retort "She's not a bitch" had left his mouth without thought.

That made it even _worse_.

Carrie had shot around with something resembling a growl while Oliver pressed his lips into a small line.

Oliver was sure Carrie sent the rumor mill into overdrive after that. The words "boy toy" and "sugar mama" hit his ears before noon and all of that made Oliver want to never leave his cubicle again. He had to, of course, because Jimmy from PR somehow lost server access.

The looks the marketing dude sent Oliver were way too judgmental for a guy who'd been caught fucking in the storage closet, if you asked Oliver.

But the absolute worst was the way the head of the IT department, Eugene Hill, put his hand on Oliver's shoulder and told him he had made it clear to everybody that Oliver's transfer to ACSD had nothing to do with his friendship with Miss Smoak—something nobody had discussed before his boss brought it up. By the time Hill had left, Oliver was shaking with anger and helplessness.

Never in his life had Oliver felt the need to hit something. Today he did.

Or maybe he could shoot something. Something not-alive, of course. Maybe virtual violence would release some very real anger—and worry, because he was honestly afraid of what would happen if the rumors reached the top floor and a certain glassy office. Oliver didn't have the slightest idea if rumors travelled that far up, but he didn't want to find out how Mrs. Smoak-Lance would react to hearing about her daughter's alleged boy toy. (God, that was so offensive. To everybody involved.) What would the CEO say about her daughter becoming friends with one of her employees? And—sadly, this was what had Oliver especially worried—was it okay to call himself Felicity's friend?

They had started lunch as not-yet-friends—that had been thoroughly established by Felicity. But something within Oliver told him they had scratched the 'not yet' by the time their entrees had arrived. Sharing with him that her best friend had come back from the dead was friendship-worthy information. She had confided in him.

The lunch non-date-date had been amazing, Oliver had come back to work yesterday happy and in a very good mood. He hated that today gossip had tainted that.

He honestly needed to go to Clan War tonight. Deciding to message Diggle and Myron to tell them duty was calling, he reached for his smartphone in time for a message pop up on the small screen. Seeing the name, he hurried to unlock his phone with forceful swipes. (He hadn't dared asking to take a picture for his contact list during their shared lunch. Offering her his number in case she wanted to talk had used up all of Oliver's bravery.) He read the displayed message. "Hey, Oliver. How are you? (I decided to go with a classic opening, I think that's ten out of ten small-talk wise.) I took your advice. You were right, talking helped. Thank you."

A smile played around his lips before he even finished reading. It was a very wordy message and it had the air of being carefully crafted. That, plus the words used, made Oliver's heart do an extra pump. His thumbs moved quickly as he answered. "Of course, anytime. Glad you had a good talk. But that opening's too cliché to get you full marks. Sorry."

She got the message instantly, he saw the two ticks indicating that she had read it. The app told him she started writing, but it took a long time for her message to actually show up on his screen. "I can never win with you! But challenge accepted: I'll get you to give me full marks."

A snort escaped him. He could practically see her do that cute little head-shake, noticing the way the last part could be read. He saw she was typing again and sensed an absolutely unnecessary apology in the works. It was that thought, this confident prediction of her reaction and next action that told him what he wanted to do next. Not letting himself think about it too much, he quickly typed, "How's your catching up on pop culture coming? The movie invitation still stands."

He felt his heartbeat turn heavier with each second he waited for her answer. He had just invited a woman to the movies (via text message!). Seeing a movie was something that could be considered a _date_ -date. All that was a very daring move for Oliver Queen—in general, but especially in this special situation. His heart seemed to stop when he saw her answer.

"Tonight?"

The smile on his face was pure joyous happiness.

"Tonight," he typed, the smile still on his face. The need to go to Clan War with his friends was completely forgotten. Instead, confidence took over. He was starting to form a friendship with Felicity Smoak, and if people wanted to gossip about that and turn it into something bad—let them. He wouldn't let the rumor mill influence or bother him—not when the alternative meant not going to the movies with Felicity.


	7. The idle rich are hard to entertain

I'm sorry I made you wait a bit longer than usual—it's been a buy week. So let's keep this short: the biggest thank you to all you lovely people you took the time to review, who follow and added this to their favorites. It means a lot. You are amazing.

 **Albiona** will forever be my rainbow-colored unicorn of awesome. Thank you.

* * *

 **The idle rich are hard to entertain**

Felicity should be too old for wearing clothes picked by her mother.

Still, Felicity had a wardrobe exclusively bought by her mother.

The result was rather startling: there weren't any pants in her closet. Not one pair.

Shopping didn't hold much appeal for Felicity. Picking out and trying on clothes seemed like a waste of time, like an unwelcome throw-back to her shallow past. She really couldn't be bothered to do that when she had to train and prepare for her night job, trying to make a positive change for the city and the people living in it. Letting Donna Smoak-Lance fill her daughter's closet had been a simple solution for that. Felicity didn't mind the pretty, colorful dresses; she liked wearing them—as long as they covered up her scars.

Despite that, the realization that she somehow didn't own anything but pretty, colorful dresses had been… weird.

Felicity really hadn't noticed before tonight, before deciding that a pair of jeans was casually adequate for going to the movies with a… friend. A male friend. With a male friend she thought was nice. Felicity had mulled it over in her head and decided that this official definition of Oliver worked for her.

What didn't work was not finding jeans in her closet. Because suddenly a question she hadn't asked herself in five years popped up: what to wear?

A pretty, colorful dress, apparently.

It was blue, bordering on purple, with a flared shirt. Her mother had made her add a pink belt while lecturing her on the importance of accessorizing.

Felicity blamed that on Sara completely.

In an action very reminiscent of high school Sara had answered Donna's question of "Where are you going?" before Felicity could, stating, "She has a _date_."

Donna Smoak-Lance had been ecstatic, which forced her daughter to clarify that it wasn't a _date_ -date, but only seeing a movie with a male friend she thought was nice.

Her mother had raised an eyebrow and said, laconically, "So you're going to the movies with a guy you like? Sweetie, that's a _date_ -date."

And now Felicity was nervous.

And Oliver was late. Not much, but a little. Three minutes. Bordering on four.

Remembering their last shared lunch and the twelve minute delay, Felicity decided to give Oliver another minute or two… or five. Moving an uneasy hand through her hair, Felicity placed a strand behind her ear. She hadn't straightened or curled her hair, had simply air dried it, letting the natural half-curls show, because back then she had still been going for natural, casual, and anti-date.

Standing on the sidewalk in front of the theater, perfectly accessorized with pink high heels to match her belt, she longed for the simplicity of pulling up the hood to face people ready to kill her.

It was her mother's fault. She had been fine before Donna had attached the label Felicity had made sure to avoid. Felicity Smoak had rarely ever dated. Pre-island-Fe had gone out, met guys, and invited them to take a ride in her limo. If they interested her more, she'd ask them to join her in the Smoak penthouse in New York or the cabin in Aspen or the yacht down at the marina. Only her very first date ever had involved a movie. Felicity had been thirteen back then and her dad had taken her. That felt like a lifetime ago. Actually, it was half her lifetime ago.

Heavy footsteps coming from her right ripped Felicity out of her thoughts. Oliver was practically running toward her. She had to bite back a smile, taking in his appearance. His face was flushed again. He wasn't wearing one of the white dress shirts he picked for work or a t-shirt like the night she 'met' him in that warehouse. He wore a blue flannel shirt that wasn't buttoned right, one side lower than the other, and it draped over his blue jeans.

"Felicity," he said, reaching her. "Hey."

"Hi," Felicity answered. Unable to hold it back any longer, the smile broke through. She really liked the way he said her name.

His eyes glued to her. "Hi." He inhaled and spared Felicity from repeating that word _again_ by hurrying to add, "Sorry, I'm late. I'm really sorry."

"It's okay. It's only been seven minutes." Realizing that knowing the exact number probably sounded judgmental and weird, she hurried to motion to his shirt. "I can see that you hurried."

Looking down at his chest, Oliver noticed his messed up buttoning. His lips pressed together in what looked like an uneasy gesture to Felicity. Great, now she made him uncomfortable—but letting him notice himself, maybe hours later, seemed even meaner somehow. "I did hurry," he admitted, reaching for his shirt to fix it. (He wore a white t-shirt underneath, Felicity noticed.) "I was talking to my sister on the phone and I couldn't shake her." He sighed. "I really wanted to be on time this time. I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing, it's really fine. Don't worry." He closed the last button at the very top and for a moment Felicity contemplated suggesting he'd leave the last one or two open, but then she decided that was probably overstepping some boundaries. Instead, she motioned to the building they stood in front of. "What movie do you recommend? That superhero one you told me about?"

He sounded hesitant. "Are you sure you're up for it? Superheroes? Even though, my sister said she liked the movie. And she really isn't a nerd. She's just into blonde dudes with long hair, big muscles, and a God complex."

Felicity didn't have the slightest idea what he was talking about. The expression on his face gave her the vague idea that there was a joke or something in there, but she honestly didn't get it.

A huff escaped him with the air of amusement. "Okay, with that blank stare there's no choice to make: Avengers it is."

Together they walked toward the theater. Oliver held the door open for her, didn't let her pay for tickets or sodas or popcorn, and made sure he sat behind that really tall guy when they reached their seats. She looked around the room: it was packed with people, male, female, young, old. Seemed like the whole superhero-stuff had really turned into a thing. Weird.

Taking in her surroundings (the emergency exit on the left, the main exit on the right, three fire extinguishers, the guy two rows down whisper-yelling at his wife, the two boys excited about smuggling in their own candy supplies four rows below), she felt the change in the atmosphere behind her. She noticed the stares directed at the back of her head. She heard the whispers, the hushed questions of "Isn't that?" and the urgent directions of "Look!" Felicity could practically feel fingers subtly pointing at her and she sensed Oliver noticing it, too. It was much too obvious to miss, really.

Quiet and immobile, he sat next to her with his back straight (whoever was sitting behind him was probably praying he'd scoot down by the time the movie started). Felicity turned to him in her seat and he unfroze, too, looking at her. "I'm sorry," he whispered, "I guess I didn't really realize what coming here would mean."

"Oliver," she answered, speaking quietly herself. "I did. It's okay. I'm used to it."

He snorted. "That's a pretty crappy thing to be used to."

"Yeah," she confirmed—and only then realized how selfish she sounded. Because, yes, she was used to it, she had considered it, and decided that it was okay to face the public like that. But she hadn't considered that he had never experienced curious eyes and people seeking first-hand gossip. There wasn't the slightest chance that he might have considered any of this and she had never bothered to question if it was okay with _him_. She looked up to meet his eyes. "I'm sorry, I didn't— It's okay if you want to leave."

"What?" He asked, stunned. "Why would I want to leave?"

"Because this is awkward and uncomfortable and I understand that you don't want to face all that and be seen with the bitch returned from the dead."

"You're not a bitch."

Another smile lit up her face. "That's what you took from that sentence?"

"It is, because it seems like I have to keep telling people that today."

The smile vanished, replaced by a frown. "What?"

Oliver sighed. "It's a long story that doesn't matter." He tipped his head slightly, thinking for a second. Dim hints of awe audible in his voice, he said, "So, you knew that people would stare and try to take pictures of you, of us, and you still came?"

"Yes." She met his eyes, wanting him to see how serious she was, because she finally understood what was going on in his head. It was pretty stupid for such a smart guy. It was also somewhat disappointing and hinted at her pre-island thinking revolving around social status. Felicity needed Oliver to know that she wasn't like that anymore. He needed to know she was perfectly fine to be seen with him, happy even. "I was looking forward to spending the night with you." She flinched, the jerk going all the way through her. "The _evening_ ," she hurried to clarify. "Spending the evening with you. Watching a movie. With lots of other people present."

He chuckled. It turned into an honest smile. Felicity noticed dimples appearing and his blue eyes shining. It made her smile herself just as the lights started to dim. Oliver offered her the yellow plastic bucket, "Popcorn?"

Smirking, she took a handful and got comfortable in her seat, not dwelling on the fact that comfortable meant shifting her body toward Oliver. He had the popcorn, after all.

Her shoulder was still nearly touching him when the lights switched on again (apparently you couldn't leave during the credits when it came to superhero movies, because there was a scene at the very end of it). The movie was over, people were coming out of their state of quiet observing, starting to chat, gathering their things, getting ready to leave. Expectantly, Oliver glanced down at her. "And? How did you like it?"

"I get the 'God complex' hint now."

Oliver chuckled. "Mission accomplished."

"It was good," Felicity answered, honestly. "I get why your sister's into Thor. And your favorite's the Captain?"

He frowned, ignoring the people around them getting up. "What makes you say that?"

"Because of—" She stopped herself from mentioning a t-shirt with a logo she had seen him wear while under her hood. She dared a shrug, "Just a guess. He seems like a guy's guy. Or Iron Man, he's a dude, too." She got up, quickly. "Shall we?"

The frown still edging his forehead, he stood. Evading his eyes, turning her back to him, Felicity made her way down the row, silently cursing herself for making such a stupid mistake. Oliver was a smart man, and Felicity was sure he was very perceptive. She would be a fool to underestimate him.

All of this felt wrong suddenly—lying to Oliver felt wrong. She had avoided direct lies until now, had simply omitted some things and openly refused to tell him others. Suddenly, Felicity realized that she was fooling herself to think this could be a date-date. Because even if it was, this didn't have a future. Oliver didn't deserve lies and half-truths and deliberate omissions. He deserved better. He deserved better than a woman who had made plans to shut down an illegal Triad casino later tonight (her best-friend-turned-stepsister was part of the reason why), ready to confront a part of her own dark past.

Stepping into the foyer, she turned to Oliver, ready to call it a night, to get to the vigilante-ing and back to the hide-out that Sara had taken over to, well, hide. From her father. She forced a smile. Immediately, his posture crumpled a little. "You hated the movie."

"What? No. It was fun."

"You don't have to lie. It's okay that it isn't your thing."

"It is my thing. I really enjoyed the movie. The only weak link was the dude with the bow; his posture was way off."

"Oh?!" Oliver smirked. "And you know that _how_?"

Good question. She felt her cheeks warm as another big lie crawled up her throat, only to turn into the sort-of truth on her tongue, "I had archery lessons."

"Seriously?"

She shrugged. "You know, the idle rich. We're hard to entertain."

He shook his head in wonder. "You're a remarkable woman, Felicity."

Felicity's heart did an unexpected jump in her chest. "Thank you for remarking on it."

They looked at each other. Only when somebody bumped into Oliver did they finally notice that they were blocking the way. In sync they started walking, heading through the foyer toward the exit, staying close to each other, but not touching. Outside, the cool evening air welcomed them, a soft breeze brushed over Felicity's bare legs. Disliking the upcoming goodbye but knowing it had to be, Felicity turned to Oliver and saw him give himself a push. "There's a coffee shop down the street. Maybe we could…. If you don't want to call it a night just yet."

Oliver fumbling over his words was unfamiliar but so endearing that Felicity couldn't help but smile while her heart sped up again. All thoughts about Oliver deserving better and this not having a future were forgotten, erased as if they had never existed. "I'm not the one who has to get to work tomorrow," she answered. "I'm up for it, if you are."

"I wouldn't be asking if I weren't." He gestured to the right, moving. "So, tell me more about archery."

Falling into step next to him, Felicity opened her mouth to answer only to close it again. Her eyes sparkling, she glanced up at him. "Oliver Queen, are you small-talking me?"

Air escaped his lips in an amused exhale. "I thought I'd give it a try. You know, normally, that's how people still getting to know each other get a conversation going."

"Apparently, we're not normal people." The words replayed in her head, sounding ambiguous.

Oliver didn't give her a chance to apologize. "Apparently not. So let's dive right into the heavy stuff: you talked to your friend?"

"I did. It was the right thing to do." She playfully bumped her elbow against his arm. "It was very good advice."

"There's a first for everything," he joked and stopped in front of a brightly lit doorway, the word "Jitters" sprawled over it. Oliver reached for the huge handle of the glass door, motioning for her to enter first.

With a smile and a nod she did and decided, "Coffee's on me. How do you want yours?"

"Black." Looking a little sheepish, Oliver added, "But decaf, please."

"Coming right up." When Felicity returned from the counter, two decaf coffees in hand, Oliver sat by a table in the back corner, away from the windows, his back toward the wall, giving her the option of facing away from the rest of the coffee shop. It was a nice gesture, but the idea of sitting like that made her skin crawl. She stopped next to the table. "Hi," she said lamely, set the two mugs down, and gestured to Oliver's seat. "Is it okay, if I sit there?" Seeing the surprise on his face, she explained, honestly, "I need to see the room, I don't like the idea of people I can't see walking behind me."

"Oh," he practically jumped up from his chair. "Of course, sure. Here." He waited for her to sit down and pushed the seat in for her. Sinking down on the opposite chair, he asked, "Better?"

"Yes, thank you." She felt awkward. "I'm sorry, I know it's weird."

"Felicity. You don't have to explain, it's okay." He sounded so sincere. It had been that exact tone that had made her want to open up to him before. That tone had been the reason she'd told him about Sara and confided in him.

"Thank you."

They looked at each other for a moment and Felicity realized that her mom was right: she was here, on a _date_ -date, with a man she really liked. She could get lost in his blue eyes and that thought alone should make Felicity want to flee from the coffee shop. She couldn't get _lost_ —especially not when she had moved past that, past going cuckoo over men. She had a mission and she wasn't a good person and she didn't deserve a sweet, trustworthy, good guy like Oliver. She deserved to be alone.

But—damn—that was hard to remember when he looked at her like that.

She broke the eye contact, reaching for her mug. Slowly, she took a sip of her own decaf coffee. It was very hot, so she set the mug back down.

"Do you want to tell me about your talk with your friend?" Oliver asked softly.

Felicity knew that she had the option of saying 'no,' but she didn't want to, not when he had been one of the reasons she had tried to see things from Sara's perspective. "It was a good. I mean, okay, we talked about a lot of not-so-good things, but it was good that we talked."

"I understand."

"She's been my best friend since high school. But she's different. I mean, we both are, obviously. But… you were right: we understand what the other went through in the last few years. We… share a new connection." Felicity moved an unruly hand through her long hair.

"Makes sense." He nodded. His fingers fumbled with the handle of the mug, his eyes glued to it.

"I know I'm being vague, but what she experienced…. It's not my secret to tell you."

His eyes snapped up to meet hers. "Of course. No. I was just searching for a way to tell you… I'm always here to listen—to your side of the story." His eyes darted away from her, he swallowed heavily.

"I know." And, really, she did. Ever since their last lunch she was absolutely sure of that. "Thank you." She smiled, seeing the corners of his mouth tick up the barest bit. "But right now I'd much rather talk about you."

"About me?" He seemed surprised. "I'm not interesting."

"I honestly doubt that, Oliver." She sat up straighter in her chair. "How did you get into computers?" Seeing the expression crossing his face, she quickly brought her index finger up. "And don't you dare rate that on your small-talk-meter, because that was an honest question and I want to hear the answer."

"Fair enough." His hands cradled the mug. He inhaled soundly before answering. "I don't really know. I've always been into technical things. I wanted to figure out how stuff worked. My mom's radio, my remote controlled car, I took things apart to put them back together and understand them. I built my first computer when I was six. I like the logic behind it, behind computers and math, things that can be explained by a set of rules." He sighed and his shoulders slumped a little. "I know, dorky."

"No." Her blonde hair flowed around her face with the forceful shake of her head. "Not at all. I envy that. Your passion. You chose this because you enjoy it, because you _wanted_ to and you're really good at it."

Her statement was followed by a moment of silence as they sat in the nearly empty coffee shop, looking at each other. He inhaled forcefully again, looking somewhat awed before slowly nodding. "Yeah, I guess you could look at it that way."

"You should," she corrected.

He cleared his throat. "We're very good with anti-small-talking."

"Yes. Serious-talking. Could be our thing."

"It should." The hint of a smirk showed on his face. "So, we have a thing now?"

A small laugh fell from Felicity's lips. "Apparently."

"Works for me."

"Even though it's not exactly logical?" Felicity heard the teasing in her own voice. It shocked her. She was even more shocked at finding that she didn't want to take it back, didn't want to clarify, justify, and belittle.

"Yes."

The sincerity in his voice nearly knocked all air out of Felicity and she knew she was in trouble, in big, big trouble—after just two non-dates and a date-date. But despite her better judgment she found that her next words were entirely true, "Works for me."


	8. You have a blind spot

Hey, guys, I'm sorry I made you wait a little longer once again. I promise I won't turn this into a habit; it's just life's being weird at the moment. The biggest thank you to all the wonderful people who took the time to review. I'm delighted that you enjoy my version of Oliver and Felicity growing closer—but now it's time to pause the romance for a second to focus on the vigilantism a little. Hope you like it.

As always, a special thank you and extra hug to **Albiona** whose friendship, support, and help is everything.

* * *

 **You have a blind spot**

Felicity had never gotten the hang of kicking in doors.

Jumping through windows was more her thing.

Shards of glass raining down on blackjack and roulette tables, Felicity burst through the skylight of the warehouse. Shocked screams accompanied her descent. A cable elegantly brought her feet to the top of a card-strewn table. Her black boots sent chips flying; champagne flutes tipped over. People scrambled away from her: men in impeccable tuxedos, woman in revealing dresses. Those people didn't interest Felicity. Her attention was on the people _not_ running. Her feet had barely connected with the tabletop when she sent the first arrow through the room, knocking a gun out of a security guard's hand. Another arrow sliced through his hand, making it impossible for him to pick his weapon back up.

All illegal casinos run by the Triad were basically the same. It didn't matter if they were in Hong Kong, like the one Felicity had guarded, or in Starling City, like the one she stood in now: some things were a recurring certainty. The inside knowledge made Felicity kick back and bring her foot into the face of the card dealer behind her—to take him out before he could reach for the gun stored underneath the table.

His body went limp and Felicity moved, jumping to the next table. It rattled, abandoned glasses crashing, drinks spilling, but Felicity's eyes and mind were on the heavy wooden bar and the guy behind it. With a flip, she jumped from the table, kicking a man running toward her in the process, making him stumble back. Felicity didn't stop moving, continuing to the bar, aiming another arrow, sending it into the shoulder of the bartender. His grip on the machine gun he'd nearly been able to aim at her loosened. Using the gathered momentum, Felicity jumped onto the bar and—not letting go of her bow—used both hands to slam the barman's head against the counter. He sank down, unconscious. Before he was on the ground completely, Felicity had already taken cover behind the bar. Looking at the unconscious bartender with the cut on his forehead, Felicity counted the bullets hitting the counter she leaned against. She knew the bar was solid; it was meant to provide cover for Triad-members during a fight.

The splintering of wood, the vibration of the barrier next to her, the sounds of bullets being driven into it filled the air. It told Felicity a lot: there were three guys left, two standing on the right, one to the left. Two fired semi-automatic pistols (knowing the Triad, it were Sig Sauers P226, holding twenty bullets max), one used a submachine gun (last year the Triad had preferred Heckler and Hoch's UMP, but they didn't sound like that to Felicity). Readying her bow, Felicity continued counting, feeling lucky that the guys with the Sig Sauers weren't alternating their shooting, but wasting their twenty shots simultaneously.

When the magazines clicked (when had China White stopped making sure her grunts had the barest brain?), Felicity shot up from behind the bar and aimed at the machine gun-wielder who was still firing at the wooden bar. The arrows hit him in rapid succession, one into each thigh, making him lose his balance and his footing. Bringing her left, bow-free hand to the counter, Felicity jumped over it and raced toward the two men busy reloading their pistols.

In time for one of them to bring his gun up, Felicity reached him. Slapping his hand away with her forearm, she brought her elbow to his sternum, knocking all the air out of him and causing him to stumble backward. That gave Felicity time to move around the other guy, who fired a volley of bullets where Felicity had been before, effectively destroying a roulette table. He was much taller than Felicity, but she kicked the hollow of his knee, making him sag lower while she turned around to his front, hitting the base of her palm against his Adam's apple. He toppled over, perfectly positioned for her knee to crash into his face. Another turn and her bow connected with the jaw of the first man, cutting his skin open. After another scissor-kick he, too, was unconscious.

Instantly, Felicity reached behind her back, taking an arrow from her quiver. Her steps careful, she crossed the room and sent an explosive arrow at the door leading to the back room (just to avoid having to kick it in, she really sucked at that).

The detonation ripped through the high room, resonating between the bare walls of the warehouse. It was followed by a loud bang as the metallic door labeled "private" hit the ground, shaken from it hinges. Another arrow already in place, Felicity marched forward, stepped onto the door, and found five guys in expensive suits around a table. Instead of chips, dollar bills piled up, telling tales of a poker game with high stakes. The stack also seemed to involve jewelry—watches and rings—plus electronic devices. "Your game's over," Felicity informed them, voice altered by a scrambler.

The men's eyes danced around the room, searching for a way to get past the vigilante and escape. The sirens of the police alarmed by an anonymous caller (informing them of fighting going on in a warehouse down by the river) drew closer. The nervousness of the men grew.

"This is $100,000. It's yours. Just let us go."

Felicity fixed her eyes on the guy who had spoken up. He was the youngest, wearing an impeccable suit, cuff links, and a hopeful expression that died within a second. He couldn't see Felicity's eyes; her hood was pulled deep, casting a dark shadow over the upper half of her face. But he must feel them on him, because he started shaking under her stare, his lips trembling. Anger was pulsing off Felicity. How dare he! How dare he try to bribe her? How could he assume she could be _bought_!

Aggression leaking from her, filling the room, Felicity stepped closer to the table, brought her foot to the side of the tabletop and pushed it over. The contents clattered to the ground, scotch or bourbon or whiskey (or _whatever_ ) spilled onto the floor, flowing around shards and ice cubes, mixing with ashes of cigars. Rings rolled over the ground. Diamonds were knocked out of golden watches and a tablet slid over the ground, hitting a foot, only to be knocked back in the opposite direction. That device caught Felicity's attention—or rather: the red Smoak International logo printed on its visible backside did. It slid right to Felicity, coming to a stop near her.

Felicity let the drawn arrow, pointed unwaveringly at the gamblers, wander over the assembled men. Her electronically changed voice revealed the anger gripping her tightly. "That's a NO."

The sirens sounded from close by and Felicity knew that those five guys (three of them really out of shape) would have a hard time outrunning the police. Her eyes on the men, she let her bow sink. Watching them, she quickly picked up the tablet and backed out of the room. She ran through the main gambling room, stuffing the tablet into the waistband of her leather pants, and then aiming a cable arrow up. In the next moment she shot up toward the ceiling, leaving the way she had entered, through the skylight, just as policemen knocked the front door in, breaching the illegal Triad casino with their guns drawn.

* * *

The clanking of the salmon ladder welcomed Felicity as she returned to the base. Sara really enjoyed going up and down that thing. Her friend stopped her workout the moment she noticed Felicity entering, hood pulled back, revealing the tight bun low on her head and an angry frown on her face. Dangling from the rod, she asked, "What's up with you? Did the Triad give you trouble?"

"No." Despite the frustration filling her, Felicity made herself place her bow down gently. "Some asshole tried to bribe me into letting him go. What about my actions ever suggested that I was up for sale?"

"How much did he offer?"

"$100,000."

Sara pursed her lips (pre-island Felicity had never noticed how much that gesture resembled her dad). "Well, he didn't know that you spent more celebrating your sweet sixteen."

"I spent more celebrating _your_ sweet sixteen." When her own words finally registered she hurried to add, "And that's not the point."

"I know." Sara's feet touched the ground with a 'thud.' "Don't be angry because that one guy tried to solve a problem by throwing money at it. It's probably his usual method."

"That's what makes me so angry, because I'm sure it usually works." Felicity unzipped her jacket and reached back for the waistband of her pants. "And I'm also angry because of this." She held the tablet out to her friend, who took it.

"It's from your family's company."

"Strictly speaking it's _our_ family's company," Felicity corrected, shrugging her leather jacket off, revealing the black tank-top underneath. "Mom reminds me regularly how much our family grew and how nice that is. You should know that she always adds it would be even nicer if you didn't keep avoiding everybody, especially your dad. I promised to pass that message along."

Sara shifted her eyes away from the tablet for a second to send her friend an annoyed look. A sound from the tablet drew Sara's attention back to it.

Felicity's interest was caught, too. "Is it password-protected?"

"Nope," Sara smirked, looking up from the display. "There's no need to get Tubby involved."

"Please, stop calling him that." Felicity sounded tired. She felt tired. And she felt caught. Because, yes, if there had been a password on the tablet she might have been forced to go to a guy who claimed his name was "code-breaker". But Felicity knew that it'd be better this way. It was better not to get Oliver involved in her night job again, not to feed him another one of those stories built on omission, not to ask him to do something illegal for her, not to misuse his trust.

Their last meeting—and she was absolutely sure both of them knew it had been a date-date, even though both made sure not to call it that—had ended with a hug. A good hug. Oliver was a good hugger. It had been nice to feel engulfed by him, feel him soft and warm against her. Disappearing in his arms had made her feel strangely safe (even though she knew she could protect herself—and him, for that matter).

It had been Felicity's night off from arrow-ing. It had been her best night since returning to Starling City.

Lying in bed, oddly giddy and happy, she had admitted to herself that she wanted to keep spending time with Oliver, get to know him better, talk to and laugh with and… hug him. That admission came with the whole grey area (that might actually be pretty black-ish) of lying to somebody you cared about. But Felicity didn't want Oliver involved in her nightly activities, like she didn't want her mother and Quentin involved. Not because she didn't trust Oliver with her secret, but because he was better off not knowing. In the darkness of her room a quiet voice inside her had whispered that it was also much easier for her not to tell him, but she had managed to silence that traitorous echo of her conscience.

Considering all this, the tablet not having any security measures was the best option. Stepping next to Sara, who was busy studying the display, swiping and touching with her index finger, Felicity said, "It was part of the stock. Guess the owner ran out of money. How much is one? $600?"

"This one's worth a lot more," Sara said. Her face serious, she met Felicity eyes. "Much, much more."

"What? Why?" As an answer Sara turned the display toward Felicity, presenting a document of some kind, filled with…. "Are those account numbers?"

"Yes. And patent numbers, stock portfolios…. Basically everything you need for inside trading."

"Are you telling me somebody threw that in the pot of a poker game? That's worth millions."

"Makes getting bribed with $100,000 even worse, huh?!"

"Somebody's gambling with a way to steal from our family's company?" Anger was returning to Felicity, a burningly hot ball collecting in her stomach, making her insides turn.

"Yes." Sara was all seriousness. "But that's not something that's up the Arrow's alley."

"The hell it isn't! That's not just my alley, that's my address! Literally!" She gestured to the tablet still in Sara's hand. "Is there any chance to figure out whose tablet that is?"

"I think so…. I can give it a try, but… Fe, do you really want to confront one of your mother's employees under your hood? What if it's Tubby?"

"Don't call him that! And it's not Oliver."

"How do you know?"

"Because I know people. And I know he isn't like that."

A sad smile showed on Sara's face. "You're one of the smartest people I know, Fe, but you have a blind spot when it comes to men."

"Sara," she sighed her friend's name, "that was _before_. It's different with Oliver. He's different from the other men. Just try to see if you can find anything out—and if you do, I guarantee you it isn't in any way related to Oliver Queen."

Calmly, Sara's eyes rested on Felicity, taking her in for quite a while before nodding. "Okay. I'll look into it and have something for you tomorrow."

* * *

Oliver had tried to get out of his gym-membership for six months. And failed. Since he had to pay for another six months (minimum) he figured he might as well make the most out of his investment. Really this time. Getting up early wouldn't keep him from going like it had the last time—and the time before that.

His best friend approved, naturally. Diggle was crazy in shape. His arms were twice the size of Oliver's—and he wasn't even exaggerating much. John Diggle and his wife Lyla (also in crazy shape) always said that you had to be prepared when entering a warzone, physically and mentally.

Ever since his date two days ago with Felicity, Oliver felt like he had ended up in a warzone. The battlefield of Smoak International was nothing compared to the attacks launched via the internet.

Oliver Queen believed the internet to be one the biggest and best inventions of the 20th century. Oliver Queen loved the internet.

Until yesterday.

Today he felt like his big love had cheated, and then stabbed him in the back. Oliver wanted to break up with the internet (an absolutely impossible notion which made it even _worse_ ).

Apparently, there was a blog called "Smoak Detector" solely dedicated to Felicity Smoak. They had been the first to publish blurry cellphone photos of Felicity and him. "Starling's Starlets" had followed with different, sadly better pictures showing Oliver and Felicity in the coffee shop. (It was that barista, Oliver was sure of it!) They had also revealed Oliver's identity, quoting a "source close to the couple" with the information that Felicity liked "Oliver's dependability."

That was somehow insulting. Dependability! Made him sound like a dog, following Felicity around.

Which was exactly what people believed was happening.

Which was the unofficial reason for Oliver sitting on an ergometer, sweating more than should be humanly possible.

Oliver wasn't stupid. He was perfectly aware that Felicity Smoak and Oliver Queen sat on very different rungs of the social ladder (maybe the Smoaks even had their _own_ ladder). Oliver could see why people might look at them having coffee together as two worlds colliding, as Felicity dating below her status, playing it safe after years of solitude.

Other people might belittle it like that. But he couldn't. Because going to the movies with Felicity, grabbing a cup of coffee together afterwards, had been perfect.

He didn't dare to call it a date, because he hadn't picked her up or brought her flowers or kissed her goodnight (but mostly because not calling it that kept some of the pressure at bay). Still, it had felt date-like. It had been easy and fun and amazing and… basically everything he hadn't dared to hope for before. Felicity had made sure Oliver knew she liked going out with him, being seen in public with him, that he was a guy she wanted to be associated with.

He believed her.

The way she had looked at him when she had told him she had looked forward to spending the night with him didn't leave any room for doubt. And the little awkward babble following hadn't left any chance not to be smitten by her. It was such an endearing trait—and a surprising one because nobody (especially not those allegedly insightful blogs) would believe Felicity Smoak, life of every party and former Queen of the DUI, to be embarrassed by accidental innuendo, to be awkward and shy around the awkward and shy Oliver Queen, a guy people considered "too fat and unimportant to bag a catch like the heir of Smoak International." (That was a direct quote, one of the many that made his insides turn for various reasons.)

None of that should matter.

But it did.

All of that had brought Oliver down to the gym this morning, before work, before breakfast. He was such an idiot, he realized, feeling somewhat light-headed.

Deciding he's had enough, he stopped pedaling. He felt like people were staring at him, judging his old sweatpants and the way his t-shirt marking him as a Starfleet Academy cadet stretched around his middle. Oliver had never felt uncomfortable in his body, but today he couldn't help but be self-conscious, while being angry at himself for his self-consciousness.

Keeping his head low, he made his way to the locker room. He had to shower here if he wanted to get to work in time—to brave the gossip happening there. He hadn't talked Felicity about that part; there wasn't any need for her to know.

He got the bag out of his locker and reached for his glasses to look at his phone. A message from Felicity waited for him. "Oliver, serious talk: I saw the blogs. I honestly didn't expect that. I'm sorry. I'd like to make it up to you by inviting you to dinner, but that might make things worse. I understand if you need space. I'm really sorry."

The smile taking over his face was fueled directly by the emotions running through him. The tingle in his chest told him one thing clearly: space was the last thing he wanted. His fingers flew over the display as he typed his answer. "Tonight?" He felt strangely giddy as he put his phone back and reached for his big, fluffy towel. She was a remarkable woman. Those bloggers didn't know a thing.

* * *

Felicity was good with window-crashing.

She needed to remember that, focus on that. Because she seriously wasn't good with heights. Standing on the roof of Smoak Tower, the wind tearing at her, as the sun vanished behind the horizon, her heart beat heavily in her chest. She concentrated on her breathing, on getting air in and out, and made herself remember that she had her arrows right here, that she could aim a cable arrow within a half-second and that they functioned flawlessly, which would keep her from plummeting to her death.

"You got this, Felicity," she told herself, her voice strong, steady, and already changed by electronics.

She knew without a doubt James Cliffort was at Smoak International and in his office—she knew, because Oliver had called two hours ago, sounding stressed and unhappy, to reluctantly cancel their dinner, because a guy from accounting had crashed a server. Felicity had told him she understood, that it wasn't a problem (only a little disappointing but she had managed not to tell him that), and she had practiced her small talk by asking him what had happened.

Oliver had been so distressed that he had apparently missed a chance to rate her small-talking-skills. Instead, he had told her that James Cliffort was an idiot and that it was that idiot's own fault he had to spend his Friday night in his office.

Felicity had the feeling James Cliffort wasn't exactly an idiot. She suspected he was acting very purposefully.

James Cliffort was the name Sara had found on the tablet. He was the guy the Arrow needed to have a very serious conversation with. And apparently tonight was the perfect night to get that over with.

Taking one last, deep breath in the twilight turning to darkness around her, Felicity walked to the edge of the skyscraper. It was important to make an entrance—Felicity knew that from first-hand experience. She wouldn't let herself be held back by her fears; she confronted them time and time again.

Felicity jumped. She fell, the wind tearing at her. She aimed an arrow and let go at just the right moment. The familiar jerk going through her body told her she was secure. Her legs stretched out, she crashed through the window, glass shattering, rolling over her shoulder, and standing tall in the next moment, her bow drawn. An arrow aimed at the heart of the man sitting behind his desk.

It was the guy who had tried to bribe her two night ago.

He looked as scared and helpless as he had in the backroom of the illegal casino. "James Cliffort," Felicity said and very much enjoyed the way that idiot's eyes widened at hearing his name rasped out in the technologically twisted voice filled with aggression. "You have failed this city." More like: he had failed this company, but Felicity preferred to stick to her trademark line.

"I—" Cliffort's voice vibrated with nerves turning into fear. "What—" He swallowed, "The Triad made me do it. They needed a way to launder their money."

Wow, that was a pretty perfect confession.

"Please," he begged, shifting his weight uneasily. "They'll kill me if they find out I talked to you."

"Tell the police when they arrest you." The arrow was still perfectly aimed. "They'll place you in solitary custody."

"No," he urged, with the perfectly side-parted black hair and the impeccable suit, "please, no." He reached for a picture on his desk. "I'm engaged." He held the picture out to her, showing her the image of a pretty girl with wild red curls, looking pretty and special. "My fiancé, Valery, she'll be heartbroken."

The guy had to be kidding her! Valery was lucky to find out what kind of guy she was engaged to and who he was doing business with. (And that was a pretty judgmental thought for a woman who kept her true self from the guy she was sort-of dating.) It was this thought that distracted her for the barest moment, that made her notice one heartbeat too late that Cliffort was actually using the photo to distract her, to catch her eyes, to move her attention away from his right hand and the—

The gunshot echoed through the room before Felicity could finish the thought. In a perfectly trained reaction, she let go of the bowstring. The arrow had barely started flying away from her when she was hit. The force of the bullet entering her shoulder pushed her back, made her stumble. A yell hit her ears and she knew that she had hit her target, too. But she couldn't contemplate that, couldn't check or react. Felicity felt the blood flowing from her wound and she knew she had a problem. It wasn't a light shoulder wound. It was bad, really, _really_ bad.

Her survival instincts kicked in immediately with one very clear and urgent thought: she had to get out of here. Not thinking any further, hearing more yells coming from outside of the small office, Felicity ran toward the glassless hole that had once been a window and jumped, praying she had the strength to actually launch that cable arrow, despite the blood seeping from her and the numbness taking over her shoulder.


	9. Talk to me, Felicity

You wonderful people, I'm sorry for making you wait so long. I haven't been well and life's all over the place at the moment. Please know that your positive feedback means a lot to me and it's greatly appreciated. Thank you very much.

A big hug of thankfulness to **Albi** for being an amazing friend.

Okay, we've all waited long enough! Let's do this. I hope you enjoy this chapter.

* * *

 **Talk to me, Felicity**

Felicity hasn't answered his text.

After a day of constant ups and downs, his phone staying silent had been the lowest low point.

Usually, Felicity was really good about answering his messages. It took her some time to type, but she always started typing fairly quickly. That morning when he had returned from the shower to his locker in the gym, her answer had been waiting for him. It had been simple but perfect: "tonight." They had set up dinner without much fanfare and it had been enough to let Oliver float out of the gym and to his desk in Smoak Tower. The planned dinner had given him something to look forward to, and the curious glances, the whispering, and the meaningful looks directed at him had bounced off his happy shell.

Until James Cliffort happened.

Oliver and his two colleagues from IT, Hunter Livingston and Bob McDeary, had tried for three hours to save the data threatened by the weirdest server malfunction he'd ever seen, somehow caused by James Cliffort, when somebody had tried to breach the firewall.

That had been… curious. An attack like that when the system was already vulnerable seemed like too big a coincidence. Oliver and Hunter had shared a look full of suspicion and Bob had tried to get the head of the IT department, Eugene Hill, to assign more people to the threat, because with only the three of them they had to choose between saving data and saving the firewall. Their boss had been a dickwad, as usual.

That had been the moment Oliver had to accept that he wouldn't make it to dinner on time. And after making Felicity wait twice, he knew cancelling was the best, fairest option.

He hadn't wanted to cancel via text, and Felicity had seemed understanding on the phone. But then half of Oliver's brain had been on his computer screen, keeping the intruders out with Hunter's help, while his cell was trapped between his ear and his shoulder. (Bob had worked to back up Accounting's files.) Oliver had been a little preoccupied, but he had noticed a certain edge in her voice.

Back in the server room, he hadn't given it much thought, but now that the crisis was averted and he was riding down the elevator to the parking garage, that strange tone in her voice sounded really important. Had Felicity been angry because he cancelled the date? Oliver couldn't shake that nagging feeling, because he had sent her a text five minutes ago, apologizing again, telling her the threat was handled and that he never had a chance to really eat anything….

Felicity hadn't answered.

And now he was way too much in his own head.

But not even Felicity needed five minutes to type an answer.

Maybe she didn't want to answer. Maybe she didn't want to hear from him anymore.

Oliver sighed just as the elevator came to a stop. Maybe, she simply hadn't seen the message yet. Not everybody had Oliver's habit of never stepping more than five feet from his phone.

Telling himself that he was overreacting, freaking out over nothing, he exited. The neon lights of the parking garage flickered to life as he walked over the gray concrete. Most of the marked parking spots were deserted. It was around nine on a Friday night; most people had started their weekend at least four hours ago.

How Oliver envied most people.

He was disappointed. He had to admit that. He had been looking forward to seeing Felicity. He had been hoping she'd still be up to a spontaneous late dinner. The idea of a cup noodles in front of his TV didn't seem very appealing—in general, but especially considering the alternative.

Pulling the key out of his black pants, he stepped to his Mustang. It was a classic built 1966 without power lock doors, air conditioning, or airbags. It was very anti-technology, actually, but Oliver loved it anyway. He loved that car despite the fact that it had belonged to his deadbeat father. The Mustang was the only thing Robert Queen had left behind (apart from a wife and two children). It had been broken down and beat-up and Oliver had fixed it himself, because his mother couldn't afford to buy a second car and because he had been able to turn it into an engineering project, which had looked good on his MIT application.

Oliver sank down onto the driver's seat and pulled the door shut with a loud, metallic bang.

"Oliver."

He flinched so violently that his head hit the roof. His heart hammering in his chest, he shot around in his seat, eyes landing on the figure curled in the backseat. Green leather captured his sole attention. The trademark of Starling City's very own vigilante didn't leave any question as to who was lying on his small backseat, but it raised another question, "How do you know my name?" (Later Oliver would be both confused and content that that was his official first reaction to finding the Arrow in his car.)

The figure moved, raised her upper body, and pulled the hood back. "Because you know my name."

"Felicity." Her name fell from his lips in an awed whisper. All Oliver was capable of doing was stare at her as everything he knew clicked into place: his rescue at the warehouse, the screwdriver, her reflexes, the USB drive, the…. "You weren't kidding about those archery lessons, huh?" (Later Oliver would be awed and awkward that that was his official first reaction to finding out the girl he was crushing on was the Arrow.)

Hints of a smile ghosted around her lips, but vanished as she sank down on the seat again, crumbling, as if propping herself up on her forearm took too much effort.

Suddenly he saw it: the red on the green.

His heartbeat spiked, really this time. "You're bleeding," he realized. His eyes glued to the spot turning darker below her left shoulder, he instinctively pushed up and leaned between the seats. His hand reached out, but he stopped, kept himself from pressing his hand to the bloody spot. His eyes traveled to hers. Pain and strain were visible in them, and a certain kind of urgency. It was this combination that snapped him back into motion. He sat back up, already turning in his seat. "I'll take you to the hospital."

"No." Her voice sounded really weak, but there was a pleading demand that made him face her again. She was struggling to rise again, stretching her hand toward him. "Please, you need to take me to the old SI factory in the Glades."

"Felicity," Oliver chided. "We don't have time to talk about this. You need a doctor." Seeing the blood seeping from her, seeing the strength vanishing from her body really drove the point home. They were running out of time.

But she was still reaching for him, her eyes pleading with him. "Sara's at the factory." Her voice was so small, so strained. "Take me to her, please." Her heavy-lidded eyes were glued to his. "Promise me, you won't take me anywhere else."

He hated this, he really did, his lips pressed together, forming a small line.

"Promise me," Felicity urged, somewhat desperately.

"Fine."

Appearing relieved, she collapsed onto the backseat, spurring Oliver into action. He fumbled the keys into the ignition. Quickly, he backed out of the parking spot, the engine roaring.

"Don't speed." Her voice was barely audible over the sound of the engine. She sounded even weaker than before. "Don't attract attention. If the cops stop you, you'll be in trouble." Her voice was losing volume with each word. "I don't wanna get you in trouble."

If anybody was in trouble, it was her—and that was a very troubling thought. He shook his head, aggravated, and tightened his grip on the steering wheel, pressing the gas pedal down gently.

It took all of Oliver's will power to slowly leave the parking garage, ignoring all the security cameras he knew were on him as he swiped his keycard at the security station. Pulling onto the street, his hands were sweaty and his heart was beating up in his throat. He glanced in the rearview mirror, but he could barely see out the back and could see nothing at all in the backseat. He adjusted the mirror so he could make out the collapsed shape he knew was Felicity. As if feeling his gaze on her, she moved slightly to glance up at the mirror.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, meeting his eyes. "I'm so sorry."

His heart turned heavy and it showed in his voice. "Just hold on," he half-urged, half-pleaded, placing his attention back on the road. A moment of silence followed, only filled by the rumbling of the engine and Oliver's increasingly worried thoughts. He couldn't deal with this void and the panic coming to fill it.

"Felicity?" He asked, his voice shaking. She groaned. It was the barest signal that she was still conscious, still alive, but it made Oliver feel a little better. "You need to stay awake," he urged her. "Talk to me, Felicity. Do I take Adams to the factory? Or Rosmond?"

"Adams."

She was still processing, that was good, even if her voice gave away what a struggle it was to speak.

"Okay," Oliver said, forcing himself not to press the gas pedal down. "Good. And at the factory. Where do I go there?"

"Alley on the left." She was mumbling more than talking. "Through main… In the back… door..." It was getting hard to make out what she was saying, her words jumbling together, her voice dropping out, then rallying slightly, "Code 141."

"Seriously? That's the code to your super-secret lair? 141? Three digits?"

Her answered sounded something like "Flubgup" to Oliver and it made his eyes jump to the mirror again. "Felicity?"

Nothing.

Desperation claimed him as he tried again. "Felicity."

More nothing.

"Stay with me." His voice turned louder. "Don't you dare lose consciousness! Stay with me!" It was an order he practically barked at her, his voice low, an unfamiliar growl. "Felicity!"

She didn't answer. Panic welled up inside him and he pressed the gas pedal down, not too much, but the car surged all the same. "Hold on," he pleaded. "You need to hold on. Please. We're nearly there."

That was a lie. It took him five more minutes to reach the factory. With screeching bouncing of the rusty metal of the abandoned industrial building, Oliver stopped the car in the alley Felicity had told him about. Getting her out of the backseat wasn't easy, but seeing the blood made him stop being overcautious. He needed to be quick. He needed to get her help and stop worrying about where and how he touched her. Once she slipped through the gap behind his seat, he cradled her in his arms and hurried into the building.

It was too dark to see properly, the floor was uneven, and he didn't have the slightest idea where to go. He made it past rusty pipes and obsolete machinery to the back of the huge hall without stumbling or running into anything. Felicity was getting heavier and heavier in his arms, the fear collecting inside him made him even more breathless, but it also kept him going, made him push forward and hold on, hold her up. Finally, he found a metal door with a keypad next to it and somehow managed to punch in the three digits. The door clicked and swung open, away from him, revealing stairs leading down. Carefully maneuvering Felicity past the door frame, he hurried down the steps as fast as he dared, barely able to see the step in front of him. The metal rattled under his feet, his breath came out in puffs, the muscles in his arms shook. But he didn't really notice. He simply rushed toward a cushion of light amidst the darkness below him.

"Hello?" he called, reaching the bottom of the stairs. "Miss Lance?"

He stopped dead in his tracks, suddenly faced with a gun. But that didn't manage to surprise or scare him—every bit of fear he could muster was already consumed by something else entirely. "She's lost so much blood. Please, you need to help her."

Immediately, the gun lowered and a blonde woman stepped from behind a pillar. Her blue eyes roamed over Felicity in his arms, taking in the situation.

She snapped into action. "Come," she ordered, and he followed.

They hurried to the brightly lit area. "Put her down here." Miss Lance's tone was all business. It calmed Oliver. She gave him the impression that she knew what she was doing, and he needed that impression to know he had made the right decision bringing her here instead of the hospital. As gently as he could, he placed Felicity on the metal table, his arms shaking. Miss Lance moved to the other side and pulled the zipper of Felicity's green leather jacket, pushing her tank top and the strap of her bra out of the way. The blonde's face twisted instantly. "Fuck. It's bad."

"She asked me to bring her here and not a hospital."

"That's the thing with vigilantism—you can't just go and flaunt your secret identity." Miss Lance reached for a rolling cabinet and slid it up the table. "Here," she threw a box of plastic glows at Oliver. He pulled two out, fumbling to put them on, his hands shaking. He felt so frantic suddenly, like everything was taking too long.

"Hey." Miss Lance's hand covered his, stopping his somewhat hectic struggle, making him look at her. "We got this, Oliver." It surprised him that she said his name, that she _knew_ his name. Combined with her firm tone, it was comforting. Her eyes were still meeting his, but she let go of his hand, throwing a pad of gauze onto Felicity's left shoulder. "We've got everything we need," she informed him. "I just need you to take a deep breath, put the gloves on, and then press down on the bandage, okay?"

"Okay." Both hands covered in purple plastic, he pressed the pad to the wound below Felicity's left collarbone, adding more pressure when Miss Lance told him to. Oliver had known he was bad with pain. Now he knew he was equally bad with blood. And it was a lot of blood, soaking the gauze in Oliver's hands, the white cotton blooming with red, while Miss Lance produced a blood bag and hooked Felicity up on it. A heart monitor appeared and a clip was placed on Felicity's finger. Miss Lance hadn't lied: they had everything here they needed, a tiny, private hospital.

She worked quietly and methodically until she pushed a rolling cabinet to the head of the table behind Felicity's head. She met Oliver's eyes. "Here's what we're going to do: the bullet's still in there. We need to get it out without damaging the carotid because the wound is really, fucking close. We clean everything and sew her up. No biggie."

Oliver nodded, not trusting his voice. Because that sounded like a biggie to him, like a big biggie.

"Let's do this," Sara said. "I'll talk you through it."

And she did. With a strong and clear voice she told him what to do, gave him direct orders to hand her this, hold that, pull that, check the pulse or the blood pressure. Oliver didn't know how long they worked, it felt like seconds and like hours at the same time, but he knew he felt desperately relieved when Miss Lance finally cut a thread and straightened up, "That's it."

"That's it?"

"Yeah," she confirmed, looking at Oliver, a smear of red on her forehead. "Now it's up to her." Oliver felt his breath hitch in his throat, because his 'that's it' and hers obviously meant slightly different things. "Hey," she said, her voice softer than it had been before. "She's tough. She'll pull through." He saw nothing but confidence in Miss Lance's features. That and her next sentence soothed him, "You really kept your head on. Couldn't have done it without you."

Oliver nodded, it was acceptance as much as it was a thank you.

Miss Lance motioned behind her. "You should wash up a little. Bathroom's over there."

That was a good suggestion. Standing in the washroom, he realized that he needed a moment to himself—and that he really needed to clean up. His white dress shirt had big red spots on it, Felicity's blood. His hands were covered with it, too, despite the gloves he had worn. There was a blot on the left lens of his glasses. Getting the blood off his hands, from under his fingernails, took him some time, but when he returned to the main room, he felt somewhat more collected.

He moved to the table Felicity rested on, her chest rising and falling, her breathing even. It was the first thing he noticed with unbelievable relief—strangely only after that did it register with him that Felicity wore nothing but her sports bra, one strap cut. The leather jacket and the black tank top were gone and suddenly Oliver noticed the marks covering Felicity's body. Scars and burn marks spread out over her torso; some scars were long slashes, others were round. Oliver felt his breath hitch in his throat. Seeing all that on Felicity's body made her look even smaller in her unconscious state.

"Are you staring at her scars or her breasts?"

Startled, Oliver's eyes snapped up, away from Felicity and to the other blonde sitting on a desk a few steps away. "There isn't a good way to answer, is there?"

She snorted. "Guess not." Her eyes were fixed on him. "You don't have to stay. You can leave if you want."

"I'd like to stay if that's okay, Miss Lance."

For the first time since he had met her she looked surprised. She motioned behind him. "There's a seat. And, please, call me Sara."

"I'm Oliver."

"I know." With that Sara turned around and pulled her black shirt over her head.

Avoiding the sight of another woman in a sport's bra, Oliver pulled a chair next to the table Felicity rested on and sat down. He hesitated for a second, but then he gave in to the longing deep inside him and reached for Felicity's hand, cradling it. It vanished beneath his hands.

A sudden sound startled him, he looked up, to Sara Lance hanging from a metal bar. He watched her flex her muscles and bring her body and the bar up, as if climbing a ladder with the step in her hands. It was intimidating and impressive at the same time. Ignoring the constant clanking, Oliver looked at Felicity again. She looked so pale, so fragile. He couldn't believe that the woman who had saved him from his kidnappers in that warehouse weeks ago was the same woman he had lunch with and coffee after a movie.

At the same time, it made sense.

Everything made so much sense.

Now he knew that hacking that security fob had been for a good cause. Because ever since the Arrow had saved him and his kneecaps, he had kept an eye on her actions—and she had done a lot of good. Thinking back to everything he had read about her with the knowledge that he had probably helped her felt rewarding, like he was part of something bigger, better. But at the same time it made him wonder: would she have told him her secret if she hadn't been forced? Oliver didn't know the answer to that, but he knew that she had shown him a lot of trust tonight. She had trusted him enough to turn to him when she needed help. She had come to him and trusted him to save her, or to get her to the person who could save her, when usually she was the one saving people.

His grip on Felicity's hand tightened. She was still wearing her black gloves. Gently, he pulled them off her right hand, the one he held in his, revealing perfectly colored nails. Bright pink caught his eyes and made him smile. That was very much Felicity, that color and that… pop. Tracing his fingers over the pink, he found that bringing those two sides of Felicity together was fairly easy. Because he had seen them both. He had glimpsed the vigilante when she had taken the screwdriver from him so effortlessly, when she had scanned the movie theater with calculating eyes, when she had asked to sit so that she could see the whole café. But he had also met a different Felicity, a teasing, smiling, joking, caring Felicity. It had been the combination of both that had fascinated him. He had always thought of her as interesting, challenging, charming. Seeing her in green leather did nothing to change his mind.

Loud beeping ripped him out of his thoughts. The sound rang like danger in his ears, stirring panic. His eyes snapped to the monitor, seeing a flat line. "Her heart," was all Oliver managed to say. Jumping up, he stared at her, hesitating for a heartbeat or two. Panic started to bubble up but instead his mind zapped back to Smoak International's mandatory company first aid lessons. Following instinct more than anything, he brought his hands to her chest and pressed down.

Sara was already with him, the metallic bar rolling over the floor.

Continuing the chest compression, he looked up at her, "Am I doing this right?"

"Yes. Keep doing it." She studied the monitor. "We need to zap her!" Oliver focused on his task until he heard the clear order of "Step back!"

Sara had a paddle in each hand and brought them to Felicity's chest, pressing a button. Nothing happened. She pressed a second time. "Fuck it," she cursed, aggravated.

Oliver was already opening the side of the defibrillator to check the wires, instantly seeing one that had come loose. Seconds later he said, "Try again."

This time a shock raced through Felicity, causing her body to spasm. Two more shocks later, the heart line returned to a steady up and down.

Oliver blinked, noticing his eyes filling with tears of pure relief. Sara's fingers rested on Felicity's neck, checking her pulse again. The blonde with the dimpled chin nodded, satisfied. She put the paddles down. "That was good work."

Nodding, Oliver ripped his eyes away from Felicity and placed them on Sara again. "Do you have any idea what happened? She was in my car at Smoak International."

"She was there to confront a guy called James Cliffort. We think he might've sold company secrets. I don't have the slightest idea how it ended like this." She gestured to the unconscious woman.

"Cliffort?" Oliver frowned. "He's from Accounting."

"Yeah. Apparently our skilled vigilante was nearly taken out by an accountant."

Oliver's voice was coated. "That's not funny."

"No," Sara stated, seriously, "it really isn't." She looked at her friend. "But it's a lesson learned: never get too cocky."

"Cliffort being dirty would actually explain a lot of what happened today at SI."

"You can discuss that with Fe," Sara said stepping away from the table. "I'm not involved in her family's business."

Oliver watched the woman put her shirt back on (he had been too worked up by Felicity's heart stopping to be awkward about being in a room with two women in their bras—probably meant he had his priorities right). Dressed again, Sara walked to a desk filled with computer screens. Part of him was curious to check out what the Arrow's computer system looked like (part of him dreaded what he would find. The three digit security code indicated the worst!), but the longing to stay next to Felicity was stronger. He sat down again.

"You're handling all of this really well."

Sara was sitting on the desk, both hands resting on the tabletop. She was observing him, studying him with curious but calculating eyes. She was as small as Felicity was, but she was strangely intimidating in a way Felicity wasn't. "It was a shock, finding her in my car." Oliver dared a small shrug. "But all of this makes sense in a very strange way."

"You think this makes sense?"

Oliver heard the challenge in her voice. He didn't know how to react to it. He chose honesty. "She was gone for five years—and whatever happened during that time… scarred her."

"We all have our scars," Sara stated. The words hung in the air, filling the space and turning the atmosphere strangely heavy. She ended the silence with a sigh. "But, yeah, somehow all of this seems like the logical conclusion to everything that happened since we boarded that damn boat." She jumped down from the table, her heavy black boots hitting the concrete. "Do you like Chinese?"

Oliver blinked, surprised. "I don't really feel like eating."

As if he hadn't spoken, she went to what he believed to be a rag crumpled in the corner. "I bought dumplings for Felicity and me." She unwrapped it and presented a plastic bag filled with Chinese take-out. "It's still warm-ish."

"I'm rea—"

"Oliver," she cut him off. "We're in for a long night. We will eat."

Sara was right: the night felt never-ending. Hour after hour passed without any change. Felicity lay on the med table, sleeping, the heart monitor beeping. Sara and he talked a little, but most of the time was spent in silence. Sara started training around two in the morning, a training dummy rattling under her heavy blows. All this time Oliver sat in his chair next to Felicity, keeping his eyes on her unmoving frame, studying her face, her closed eyes with the long lashes, her fair skin, her full but pale lips, the piercing spreading across her ear shell.

A hand on his shoulder startled him into awareness. His eyes snapping open, turning huge, he looked up to find Sara standing next to him, a half-smile on her face. Reflexively, he brought his hand up to wipe his lips, feeling caught. He had fallen asleep when he had wanted to watch over Felicity. Sitting on the uncomfortable chair, his head had sagged onto his chest; he had drooled (probably also snored) when he should have stayed awake to be able to act if Felicity's condition changed. Awkwardly, he cleared his throat.

"Here." Sara held a mug out to him, adding, "Coffee."

"Thanks," he took the mug and a sip. The coffee was strong, warm, and exactly what he needed. "What time is it?"

"Nearly eight."

Oliver huffed in unhappiness. He had slept for hours—and he had slept for hours in the worst position possible. Arching his back, rolling his shoulders, he tried to sooth his aching muscles, but it didn't help at all. Ignoring the pain in his back, Oliver placed his eyes on Felicity.

"She's coming to." Sara said, holding on to her own mug with her left. "I thought you might want to be awake for that."

Thankful, he glanced at the blonde woman standing next to him, giving her a nod, but he quickly placed his attention back on Felicity. Sara was right: Felicity's eyes were moving behind her closed eyelids. Oliver put the mug down to the ground and stood up. Now that she was closer to consciousness, he didn't dare touch her, but he watched her closely. Sara moved to the other side of the table.

It took nearly five minutes for Felicity to finally, slowly open her eyes.

They met Oliver's instantly. His heart jerked with a happy spark. A small smile showed on his face, his voice lost in a sea of relief.

"Hey." Felicity's voice was weak and hoarse, but it sounded like music in his ears.

"Hey," he managed to answer, still smiling.

"You really scared us," Sara stated, not sounding as collected as Oliver expected.

"Sorry," was all Felicity got out, her eyes still hooked with Oliver's.

Sara's hand came to rest on Felicity's arm, drawing her friend's attention. "Get some more rest. And when you wake up again you can tell me that you were right about him." She nodded at Oliver.

Felicity's eyelids were drooping again but the hint of a smile showed on her face, mumbling. "'ill do."

Sara shook her head, fondly. "Of course you will."

Seeing Felicity slip into sleep again. Oliver looked at Sara, "She was right about me? How?"

"You're not like her other men."

"And that's a good thing?"

She huffed. "Yeah, Oliver. That's the best thing."


	10. Entirely platonic circumstances

Guys, I know I said it a lot lately, but I'm really sorry I made you wait again. My only excuse is life. But since things seem to be going back to something more normal and I hope to post more regularly again. Feel hugged and appreciated, even though I've been so awfully MIA lately. But I have definite plans to change that.

A huge thank you to **Albiona** for being amazing.

Okay, I feel like we all waited enough. Time to shut up and get to chapter ten. I hope you'll enjoy it. Love, Jules.

* * *

 **Entirely platonic circumstances**

Waking up to an arm that's fallen asleep isn't the best way to start the day.

It turns into a lesser evil if the alternative's not waking up at all.

Felicity blinked against the brightness shining down on her, a groan escaping her as she tried to shield her eyes against the florescent lights above the table she was resting on. Her arm felt numb, but the blood rushing into it brought pins and needles. Another soft groan passed her lips and she squeezed her eyes shut, doing a mental inventory. Her body felt heavy, a throbbing originating in her left shoulder spread through her entire torso, her mouth was dry and she felt somewhat sweaty. Somebody had draped a blanket over her, she realized. Letting it drop down, Felicity sat up, slowly opening her eyes now that she wasn't staring into an industrial lamp anymore.

"Easy." Sara appeared next to Felicity, steadying her friend with a hand on her back.

"How—" Felicity's voice was scratchy after many hours of disuse. She cleared her throat, but it was as dry as her mouth.

"Here," Sara said, handing her a glass of water.

With a thankful nod, Felicity took it in her right hand while trying to shake blood back into the other. The water was soothing. She took tiny sips before emptying the rest in one huge swallow. Her voice sounded stronger when she asked, "How long was I out?"

"Thirty-six hours." Seeing the stunned shock on her friend's face, Sara nodded. "Yeah, it's Sunday around noon."

"My mom—" Felicity started, remembering the scheduled shopping trip (a result of Felicity complaining about not owning any pants).

"…is very happy that you spent your Saturday with the guy you went to the movies with."

Another groan escaped Felicity. Because, yeah, that sounded like an excuse Donna Smoak-Lance would gladly accept. It also sounded like something her mom would want to talk about.

"It's not even a lie," Sara continued, smirking. "He was here the whole day, sat by you that whole first night, holding your hand. I sent him home around one last night. The poor kid didn't need to spend two nights in a row in that crappy chair."

A happy tingle rushed through Felicity. She remembered waking up once and seeing Oliver. She remembered the look of relief taking over his face and she remembered not being able to look away from him, because he was there, by her side. After she had revealed her big secret, showed the ugly side of herself to him; after she had climbed into his car, scaring him, putting him in an impossible situation; after she had passed out and left him to fend for himself, he had _been there_. And to now to hear that he hadn't just made sure she pulled through but that he had _stayed_ made her feel like she was floating.

"That's a pretty big smile you got there, Fe." Sara was smirking herself, teasingly, fondly.

"I told you he's not like all the other guys."

"Seriously? That's how quickly you want to give me the 'I told you so'?" Sara raised an eyebrow. "Guess you're really feeling better."

Moving slowly, Felicity turned on the metal table toward her friend. Her legs dangling down, she looked at Sara. "Thank you."

Sara's hand rested on the other woman's knee, giving a gentle squeeze. "Sure. You were lucky, Fe. That accountant nearly took you out."

"I know. Won't happen again. I made a stupid mistake."

A snort escaped Sara. "Yeah, no kidding."

Felicity kept quiet; there really was nothing to say. Getting distracted by a photo was such a rookie slip-up. It was stupid and Felicity was supposed to be smarter than that, better than that. She had underestimated James Cliffort, hadn't taken him seriously while distracted by the fact that she was crashing through a window of her family's company when she'd much rather been at dinner with Oliver. Being that distracted was reckless. She should have learned that lesson years ago—actually she _had_ learned that lesson years ago. But, apparently, she had needed a reminder.

She wouldn't forget again.

Sara's hand gave her knee another gentle pat. "Make sure you're not that stupid again."

"I will," she promised, her voice filled with determination.

The two women shared a look of silent understanding when a click cut through the silence. It was a soft sound but in the huge room it travelled far. Sara moved to the workbench instantly, getting her gun. She had barely aimed it toward the stairs when she lowered it back down. "Oliver," she greeted.

"Hey," he said, heading toward them. "I brought food and coffee." As proof, he lifted his hands, showing off the brown paper bag in his left and the cup holder in his right. His eyes were glued to Felicity the whole time. Relief was visible in them and it resonated in his voice when he said, "You're up. That's good." He stopped right next to Felicity, nearly inside her personal space. "How're you feeling?"

She couldn't help but smile at him. There was no denying it: she was happy to see him, happy that he'd came back to her…. And Sara. To their base.

"I'm okay," she assured him, adding a small smile, and felt the worry leaving him.

"What did you get me?" Sara's question snagged Oliver's attention.

He set the bag and the cup holder down onto the med table. "Slim caramel latte, extra sugar."

"Oliver," Sara said, earnestly, "you really are one of the good ones."

Felicity couldn't help the slight irritation that Oliver knew Sara's awfully specialized (and awfully awful) coffee preferences. She watched Oliver hand Sara a paper cup. She nodded a "thank you," then dug into the paper bag, took a sandwich out, winked at Felicity, and left, walking up the stairs soundlessly.

"Here," Oliver handed Felicity a cup. "Sara said you liked regular lattes, so…."

The corners of her mouth gave an upward tug. "I did," Felicity admitted. Before the island she did. Since then coffee had been an un-necessity, very low on the nutrition list, and very hard to get—especially with foamed milk, especially in the areas of Asia she'd been frequenting. Now, after the island, she didn't really care if her coffee was black, decaf, or a latte. She took a sip of the lukewarm liquid. Looking at Oliver, she nodded, "Apparently, I still do."

Oliver shifted his weight a little awkwardly. He looked paler than usual. His eyes seemed tired behind his glasses. A pang stabbed through Felicity as she saw those reminders of worry, the evidence of what she had put him through on this weekend that they'd planned to start with a causal dinner.

"Hey," she said, her voice sounding unusually soft and gentle in her own ears. Hearing it, his eyes met hers. Felicity sent him a small smile. "Thank you." A heartbeat of silence followed spent with simply looking at each other—until Felicity felt the need to clarify, "And not just for the coffee, but for… everything. I know I asked a lot of you, but…. You saved my life."

Oliver gave a half-shrug. "I guess that makes us even. I never got to thank you after the warehouse."

"You really impressed me that night," Felicity stated honestly. "You were very brave, refusing to get those launch codes." She saw a light blush creep over his cheeks, his eyes dart away from her, uneasily, but a smile ghosted around his lips. Remembering Sara mentioning Oliver holding her hand while she had been unconscious, Felicity followed a sudden urge from deep within her. Gazing at his hand resting on the tabletop next to her, Felicity placed her own over it. She felt his surprise. His eyes snapped back to her, connected with hers, while her fingers tugged around his, giving a gentle squeeze. "That showed me I could trust you. And that you'd help me."

His blue eyes sparked, coming to life with the smile he gifted her. They gazed at each other and Felicity saw a teasing gleam enter his. "As exciting as all of this was, I admit I would've preferred our original plan of going to dinner."

A chuckle escaped Felicity. "Yeah, me, too." She stressed her words by tightening her fingers around his hand once more. "We'll make up for it." He nodded agreement and she let go of his hand.

"Well," he said, reaching into the paper bag, "I brought you a sandwich." He handed her one. "I also upgraded your security system. Seriously, that looked like it was from the eighties. And not the fun eighties like Space Invaders, He-Man, and Indiana Jones, but the sad eighties like perms, legwarmers, and E.T." He pinned her with a stare. "No self-respecting vigilante should use a three digit security code."

"Yeah," Felicity bit back a smile. "I dimly remember that discussion." She unwrapped the sandwich. "And I liked E.T. It was a good movie."

"I'm not talking about the movie. I'm talking about the video game. It was so bad that they buried it in the desert."

"Oh." Felicity didn't know what to say to that. She simply took a bite of her sandwich and chewed. Oliver took a sip of his coffee (she couldn't see through the paper cup, but she remembered he preferred it black), when a sudden thought hit her. She swallowed. "How many digits will I have to remember to get into my own base?"

"24."

"24?! During an emergency, you want me to punch in 24 numbers to get to my gear?"

"My original plan was 48. Sara called that excessive." Felicity stared at him. He didn't appear fazed in the slightest. "I blocked them in six separate groups of four, each will have to be decoded separately. If somebody shows up at your door with a decryption device, he'd get your old three-digit code in three seconds—max. But the new code gives you a ten-minute warning—minimum." He let that sink in and added, as if it'd mean anything to her, "256 bit encryption."

Severity shone from his face, and Felicity realized how damn serious he was about those security measures _he_ deemed necessary. She could strangely relate to that.

He set his coffee down again. "I also started improving your firewall using 256 bit encryption, but I want to redo your whole server, make it untraceable and unbreachable." He brought his coffee cup up again.

She nodded, the barest smile on her face. "Tell me what you need and I'll get you the equipment."

A surprised jerk went through him, causing coffee to spill past his lips and onto the red t-shirt he was wearing (the helmet on his chest was Iron Man, Felicity knew now). "That," he wiped at the stain on his chest, rubbing it in more, "is a sentence you should never say to a geek."

"You're in charge of the tech." She shrugged. "It should be up to your standards."

Inhaling soundly, Oliver nodded. "I have high standards." There was a certain teasing.

Felicity matched that easily. "I wouldn't want it any other way."

He shook his head, smiling, set his cup down, and got a sandwich out of the bag.

Felicity took another bite of her own, feeling ambiguous. Oliver knowing her secret, becoming a part of it, felt natural, right even. But at the same time she knew that it shouldn't. He shouldn't be a part of this. It was too dark and too dangerous. Neither darkness nor danger should be anything Oliver faced. Strangely this thought entering Felicity's head marked the moment she realized that she was sitting next to him only in her Arrow-pants and a sports bra (one strap cut). Her scars and burns were perfectly on display, the ugly, disgusting sight bared to his eyes. Nobody but her female family and the doctors at Starling City Memorial had seen them—she had made sure of that. And now here she was, presenting her scars to him—and it didn't matter. She didn't feel self-conscious or ashamed. It was okay. Because Oliver seemed okay with it, he didn't seem fazed or awkward.

He'd probably had time to get used to the sight in the last 36 hours, a voice inside her reasoned, but it triggered another voice stressing that, apparently, he was used to and fine with them. The thought that she was also fine with showing Oliver more of the things she kept hidden from everybody else hit her completely unprepared. But she couldn't deny it to herself, she didn't want to deny it: she wanted him to get to know her, the real her, all the sides of her—and she wanted to know everything about him, all the different layers she had only gotten a glimpse of so far.

But she cared about him and that feeling made her want to utter a word of warning. She couldn't deny the dark danger her past and present actions brought. She couldn't just take his help for granted. She had to offer him an out, because she knew that that was probably the better option—no matter how much the thought of him turning his back on her hurt.

Seriousness shone from her eyes as she fixed him. "Oliver. All of this, it's…." She swallowed, starting anew, "You don't have to feel obligated to—"

"I don't," he cut her off, his eyes drilling into her, wordlessly telling her how serious he was, how he wouldn't turn his back on this, on her, how he wanted to do this. "James Cliffort," he continued, surprising Felicity. "Sara said you think he stole from SI?"

"Yes." Felicity looked around. "Did Sara show you the tablet I got from that Triad casino?"

"No." Oliver blinked. "She actually never mentioned a Triad casino." He shook his head as if chasing that thought away and cleared his throat, getting back to his own point. "Friday evening somebody tried to infiltrate SI's servers. Hunter and I were able to keep them out while Bob saved Accounting's files—but that felt like a big coincidence. The crash made the servers vulnerable."

"I don't believe in coincidence."

Oliver's nod came with an unspoken 'Me neither.' He unwrapped his sandwich. "I'll check out the tablet after we eat. Maybe, I'll find something Sara missed."

Felicity nodded and took another bite. That sounded like a plan. It also sounded like something she could really get used to: having Oliver's expertise and support. All in all she had the feeling that this would become one of the better memories involving a bullet wound.

* * *

Felicity had skipped her morning jog.

Recovering from a gunshot wound, it felt like the right thing to do.

Considering she had stood her mother up on Saturday, having breakfast with her mother and her mother's husband had felt like another right thing to do. (Especially since Sara was MIA. As always. If she kept that up Quentin Lance would probably hunt his daughter down and tie her to a chair, then force her to tell him what was going on in her life.) It seemed much less 'right' now that she was actually sitting at the kitchen table, sipping black tea, eating buttered toast. Quentin Lance sat at the head of the table, hidden behind a newspaper, ruffling the pages loudly, huffing in displeasure quite regularly. He was a fairly low-key breakfast companion.

Unlike her mother.

Donna Smoak-Lance was peeling an orange, sitting opposite Felicity, grilling her daughter about her Saturday. "A movie, talking, and coffee? That's your official version?"

The disbelieving tone in her mother's voice and the way she raised an eyebrow made Felicity feel like an annoyed teenager. "Why are you asking like that? Why should there be an unofficial version?"

"Because you didn't come home Saturday night." Donna's smirk was surprisingly dirty. "I'm not judging or complaining. It's healthy. After five years alone I'm sure you have needs—"

"Uh, mom, no!" Felicity groaned.

"I'm just saying: after that many years taking care of yourself, it's good that you found somebody to take care of you."

Quentin folded the top of his paper down, fixing his gaze on his wife. "Do you think this is the right conversation for breakfast?"

Felicity gestured to her step-father—the voice of reason and decency—sending her mother a look that said 'There!'

"Fine," Donna huffed. "Then why didn't you tell me that the guy you went to the movies with is Oliver Queen?"

"Because he's your employee." Felicity would've rather taken the physical pain of running than this mental torture. "And nothing happened between Oliver and me."

"You spent the night with him," Donna insisted.

"And I love spending the night with him." Her words registered with Felicity after one second. She flinched. "Platonically. I'm talking about entirely platonic circumstances." Involving bullet wounds and nearly dying. If anything was anti-sexual it was that. Sadly, she couldn't reveal it.

"Sorry, Felicity," Quentin said, "I know bad excuses from my day job—and that's a bad excuse." Sending her one last look, he brought his paper back up.

"It's the truth." Really, it was.

"Okay, fine," Donna said, clearly not believing her daughter. "So tell me a little bit about him. What's he like?" Seeing the glare her daughter sent her, she clarified, voice strict, "I mean in your entirely platonic circumstances: what's he like?"

"He's really nice." Knowing her mother wouldn't let her get away this that, Felicity added. "He's really easy to talk to and I feel like I can be myself around him. He's funny, like… quick-witted. He does this stupid thing where he rates my small-talk abilities and it's—" Seeing the expression on her mother face, she stopped mid-thought. "What?"

"Felicity Megan Smoak, you're smiling."

She hadn't even noticed, but—yes—she was. "And?"

"And that's the first truly genuine smile I've seen on your pretty face in the last four months." No knowing what to say (or how to really feel about this), Felicity stayed quiet. Donna filled the silence. "Okay, any guy that makes you smile like that is a keeper. When we go pants shopping we should also buy you something sexy for underneath—in case your dates turn less platonic."

"Mom," Felicity sighted, annoyed. "Please, stop it."

"What?! You've been alone for years, Felicity. Really, I don't think you have any time to waste."

"Mom!" Felicity's annoyance grew. "Please, I really like Oliver. And after all these years, I…. Can you just let me do this in my own speed?"

Hearing that, Donna's shoulders dropped a little, folding a little on her chair. "Sweetie, of course." Sincerity and a distinct softness took over her features. "We just never talk anymore. You used to tell me about the guys you liked and what went on in your life. I miss that. And you're right. You need to do this at your own pace—and you have lots of time."

"Thank you." Felicity sent her mother a small smile. "And I miss it, too. I'm sorry I forgot about our shopping trip. How about you and me and too many changing rooms cubicles today?"

Donna sighed. "I'd love to, but not today. I'll be putting out fires—all because that damn vigilante felt the need to crash into our headquarters and injure one of our employees."

Felicity stiffened in her seat.

Quentin spared her from having to say anything. "The fires might burn hotter than you think." He let the paper sink. "Beth Brinley's asking why the Arrow went after an SI accountant when she normally only targets members of organized crime. Which…" he looked apologetic at his wife, "is a good question, even if it's not helpful to you."

"Did Brinley seriously connect Smoak International to organized crime?" Donna stared at her husband, who nodded.

Felicity frowned. "Who's Beth Brinley?"

"She's a reporter with the Starling City Chronicle," Quentin answered. "She mostly did political pieces—until the Arrow showed up."

Donna snorted, looking much more like a CEO now than a mother prying into her daughter's (non-existent) sex life. Her features were harder, as were her eyes when she said, "Now she's a vigilante-obsessed know-it-all who throws accusations around without offering the least shred of proof!"

Mercilessly, Quentin answered, "When she questioned the sense of the Arrow-taskforce, and 25 police officers working full time to catch a woman who had rescued 200 women from modern-day slavery, instead of trying to catch the men forcing 200 women into slavery, you were very much on her side."

Donna glared at her husband. "Smoak International is _not_ connected to the mob!"

"But something's off about that accountant," Felicity said evenly, the eyes of the other two people at the breakfast table snapping to her. "Oliver told me the guy made a server crash on Friday. And while the servers were vulnerable somebody tried to hack in."

"What?" Shocked, Donna stared at her daughter. "I haven't heard anything about this."

"Oliver and two of his coworkers kept the hackers from getting in. Apparently, the Head of IT wasn't any help, refused to send more people, because it was Friday. All of it sounds fishy to me."

Donna blinked. "What?!" This time there was less shock and more aggression in her voice. Forcefully, she shoved her chair back. "Quentin, I need you to take me to work."

Her husband folded the paper up. "Yes, dear, that sounds like a good idea."

"Felicity, thank you for telling me about this," Donna stated. "I promise to leave Oliver out of it as much as possible. The poor guy has bad enough as it is."

Felicity frowned and now it was her asking, "What do you mean?"

"He didn't tell you? His colleagues don't appreciate him… spending time with their boss's daughter." Seeing the look on Felicity's face, Donna smiled fondly. "Don't worry, I'll handle it discreetly."

Felicity really, really wished she hadn't skipped her morning run—if there were two things that were really hard to connect, they it were Donna Smoak-Lance and discretion.

* * *

Felicity's text worried him. Even if he didn't understand it entirely.

"I should've gone running, stitches be damned. I told my mom. She said she'd be discreet. Also: she might be thinking we've spent the night together. Couldn't change her mind about that. I'm sorry."

What exactly had Felicity told her mother?!

Oliver had experienced enough of Felicity's Freudian slips to imagine her telling Donna Smoak-Lance that she'd spent the night with Oliver. Normally, he found her unintentional double-entendre charming. She might mean it in a completely innocent way (despite how it sounded), but telling that to her mother, Oliver's boss, (actually, she was the boss of Oliver's boss) really, really didn't have a charming ring to it.

The first signs of an internal freak-out of epic proportions had just started when another text arrived—one that was way too snappy for somebody who had accidentally put him on the boss's radar as the guy sexing up her daughter. "And you should've told me about the situation at work! I didn't appreciate my mom telling me that your colleagues don't like us spending time together."

Seriously?! She had to be kidding him! His desk's phone ringing stopped him from texting her back. Mrs. Smoak-Lance's EA Gerry Conway asked him to come up to the top floor.

Walking toward the elevator, horror scenarios that ranged from getting fired to being told he wasn't good enough to spend time with the heir of Smoak International piled up in his mind. Oliver felt sweat collect on his forehead. Nervous, he checked his tie, tightening it. His thoughts came to an abrupt halt when he rounded the corner into the hall with the elevator and saw Hunter Livingston and Bob McDeary. Quickening his steps, he slipped into the cabin before the door closed. His two colleagues looked as worried as Oliver felt. "You're on your way up, too?" he asked. It was an unnecessary question, the button for the top floor was lit, indicating it as their destination.

Hunter swallowed heavily. "I've never been up there."

"I have," Oliver said, calming down with the realization that maybe he had understood Felicity's text even less than he had thought. "It will be fine."

Hunter nodded, but Bob gestured at Oliver's blue sweater. "You have something there."

A groan escaped Oliver when he saw the white dust on his chest, the leftovers of the powdered donut he'd had for breakfast (this morning he had been on the rowing machine for 45 minutes—he deserved some sugar). Hectically—and unsuccessfully—he wiped it away just as the elevator stopped.

Gerry Conway waited for them in the hall and ushered them into Mrs. Smoak-Lance's office. The CEO got up when the three men entered, greeted them politely, and motioned to a sitting area. Her EA sat down behind her desk, a tablet in hand.

"Gentlemen, thank you for coming," Mrs. Smoak-Lance said, as if they actually had the choice not to. She continued with a clear order, "Please, tell me about the attack on Friday."

Feeling Hunter's elbow dig into his ribcage, Oliver sat up straighter in the modern-looking but uncomfortable black leather seat and gave his boss a short summary. At some point Bob cut in, informing Mrs. Smoak-Lance about the saved data, about his talk with the IT head, Eugene Hill, about his suggestion of instituting rotating shifts to make sure the IT department was available 24 hours a day. That request had been declined.

Afterward, a moment of silence followed. Mrs. Smoak-Lance sent her EA a short nod before placing her attention on the three other men. "Mr. McDeary, Mr. Livingston, Mr. Queen. Please, let me thank you personally for your efforts. Apparently, you are the only three members of IT willing to stay late on a Friday in case of emergency. Your commitment and your work was exemplary and I am honestly grateful." She exhaled noisily. "I'd like to inform you that I accepted Mr. Hill's two week notice." All three members of the IT department froze. The head of their department had been fired? None of them knew what to say. Luckily, Mrs. Smoak-Lance continued. "Mr. McDeary, you've work for our company for 15 years. Exemplary work, I might add. I saw your suggestions for improvements—they are all approved. I'd like you to supervise their installment as head of IT."

Bob swallowed heavily, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Me?"

"You." Mrs. Smoak-Lance smiled a smile that reminded Oliver of her daughter. "Are you interested?"

"Yes," Bob's answer came instantly. "I am."

"Good. We'll discuss salary once we're alone. Mr. Livingston, I'd like you to go through James Cliffort's digital stuff." Oliver managed to keep his face even and not roll his eyes at his technologically challenged CEO. "If he caused the crash on purpose, I want proof. I also need all his files," she glanced at Gerry, speaking carefully as if she had memorized her next words, "backed-up and deleted from the main server." Gerry nodded. Oliver managed to hide a smile. "I need to know what happened on Friday and I want you to find out. Mr. Queen, I know this is your last week at the IT department, but I want you on this project as well. You three will help me understand what happened—and, yes, Mr. Queen it might take multiple tries to explain your cyber-whatever to me, but I know you have the patience to do it. I want to know what is going on in my company and you are the experts to find out for me."

 _Wow_ , Oliver thought, looking at his boss, _that woman being the mother of the Arrow makes so much sense_.

The men nodded and Mrs. Smoak-Lance got up, signaling for Bob to stay to discuss his sudden promotion. She shook Hunter's hand, thanking him again, and then she turned to Oliver, offering her hand as well, accompanying it with a smile. "Mr. Queen. Good work." There was a strange tone in her voice that gave this phrase a certain heaviness Oliver couldn't quite place.

He tried to seem unaffected. "Thank you, Mrs. Smoak-Lance."

Leaving the office and walking toward the elevator, Oliver finally understood Felicity's text. He'd have to text her back, telling her that her mother was the boss at being a boss—and was actually discreet.


	11. Whatever experiences you had to go throu

Thank you so much for your patience. I hope this chapter makes up a little for the long wait.

 **Albiona** , thank you for being such an amazing friend.

Have a good week, people, and: happy reading!

* * *

 **Whatever experiences you had to go through**

Oliver was in a room with two women hitting each other with sticks. Voluntarily.

Meaning, he was in that room by his own choice, just like the women hitting each other were choosing to do so.

How was this his life?

It was awesome!

As awesome as putting together a super-computer worth close to $100,000. When handing Felicity the tablet with the cost-estimate, he had told her that this was a "candy-shop list" (that had brought a small smile to her face, a sight he always enjoyed) and that he could tone it down easily. (The second server cabinet for more processing power was dispensable, even if the truth of it hurt his soul a little bit.) But Felicity had simply handed him the tablet back plus her black credit card and had told him to "Go buy the candy shop, Oliver."

The part of Oliver raised by a woman who'd juggle two jobs to make ends meet for her children—a woman who had sold her father's watch to send her son to science camp—was somewhat offended by Felicity's statement. But the other (shamefully bigger) part of Oliver feeling like a kid in a candy store had reasoned that the equipment was part of her mission. Their tech needed to be state of the art and up to the task—and so he had gone and bought the second server cabinet and the 60" 4k-screen to mount on the wall—for purely logical, vigilante-work related reasons. (If he wasn't worried about security risks he'd bring his PS4 one day. Man, the thought alone gave him happy goosebumps.)

His previous five days had been spent in Smoak International's IT department combing through James Cliffort's files with Hunter, and collecting more than enough evidence to prove the accountant had been dirty. Mrs. Smoak-Lance was very pleased. Gerry Conway muttered the word "bonus" under his breath when accompanying Hunter and Oliver to the elevator yesterday.

So, his days had been good. His nights had been even better, spent in the basement underneath an industrial building. The first tech delivery had arrived on Wednesday (ordered with Felicity's card but transferred and redirected through so many channels that the money trail was impossible to follow) and Oliver had started setting it up while Felicity and Sara sparred, while Felicity fabricated her own arrows and Sara went up and down the salmon ladder, while Felicity burst into a Bratva drug deal. She'd returned with information about a new arms dealer calling himself The Mayor.

Oliver worked on setting up the equipment while they listened to the scanner monitoring SCPD, and while Felicity grew more and more impatient, sending him looks that silently asked him what was taking so long. The look he answered with was supposed to convey that he'd be done when he was done, because this wasn't like installing Windows. He wrote his own damn security protocol—one so advanced that he might actually suggest it as a project once he started working at Advanced Computer Sciences on Monday. It would need some tweaking, since the needs of a multi-billion dollar company with 50,000 employees like Smoak International are different from the needs of a vigilante targeting organized crime syndicates, but it could work. It might, if everything worked in the next minutes.

Stepping back from the desk, letting his eyes slide over the three huge retina displays, he nodded. "Done."

The rhythmic clicking coming from behind him stopped. Oliver turned to the two women on the training mats behind him. Wooden sticks in both hands they looked at Oliver; a smile played around Felicity's lips. It was that and the twinkle he saw in her eyes that took the sting out of her next word: "Finally."

Sara kept Oliver from answering. In a sudden and swift movement she raised her stick and swung it at Felicity who brought her arms up instantly, blocking the strike. The women's eyes were glued to each other. "Never let your guard down," Sara said.

"My guard was up," Felicity answered, "as you can see."

 _Those two are so badass._

Oliver would never, ever let that thought pass his lips, but it was ringing very clearly through his head. And he couldn't help but feel like, if Black Widow ever stormed their super-secret basement, Felicity and Sara could take her. Easily. Comparing the fighting skills of a fictional character to those of two very real women was ridiculous, of course. But Oliver's inner nerd couldn't help it, couldn't help but be amazed by these two women, and the fact that they had accepted him so easily into their group, welcoming him to play his unique part in their badassery.

He snapped back into reality as the two badasses walked toward him. He motioned to the server cabinets positioned outside of the space they… worked in. His eyes were on Felicity. "Care to do the honors?"

She shook her head, the high ponytail she always wore during training swinging behind her. "The honor is yours. You earned it."

A soft humming filled the air after the first push of the button. The second, activating the second server, turned the buzz a little louder. The three monitors came to life, as did the huge screen attached to the wall. The booting sequence displayed everywhere and it looked good, very good… until it didn't. "Son of a bitch!" The curse was past his lips before he could stop it.

"Hey!" Sara pinned him down with a hard glare. "I don't like that word."

Oliver felt a cold tingle rush through him. "Of course," he hurried to say. "I'm sorry."

Felicity's eyes were still on the huge screen. "It's doing something. What's the problem?"

"The two servers aren't communicating correctly and one is the firewall of the other, so that's a problem."

"Can you get them to talk?"

Oliver had to bite back a smile. Felicity sounded so much like her mother in that moment. "Yeah, I can. I'll get on that right away."

Felicity hesitated for a moment. "You've been working non-stop for almost eight hours. It's okay to call it a night." Her eyes met his. "A Saturday night."

"I'm fine spending my Saturday night right here."

A small smile lit up Felicity's face. She nodded.

Sara cleared her throat next to them, drawing Felicity's eyes to her. "Do you still want to check out the address you got out of that thug last night?"

"Yes," Felicity's grip tightened on the wooden stick she held in her right hand. "I need to get to The Mayor before he gets comfortable in my city. I want to send a clear message." She banged the bottom on the stick on the ground once. "I'll suit up."

Sara and Oliver watched her walk toward the backroom. Dimly smirking, Sara glanced up him. "Seems like you'll have to spend a little of your Saturday night with me for now."

Oliver angled his chin down to hold her gaze. "Perfectly fine with me."

And he really was. He liked Sara. Her collected calm had kept him from falling apart when Felicity had been bleeding on the med table. She had made him feel welcome in their team, not with words but by simply accepting him around, including him in their food orders, giving him her cellphone number for emergencies. It was her way of letting him in, he sensed. Sara was less vocal than Felicity, much more guarded and less trusting. Oliver knew there must be reasons for that. He didn't know details, but it didn't take a genius to conclude that her previous five years—just like Felicity's—had been filled with a lot of suck.

It was that thought that made him shift awkwardly. "Sara." He got her attention. "I'm really sorry about using the b-word. Consider it erased from my vocabulary."

Dim amusement shone in Sara's eyes, even if her face stayed even. "It's okay. When it comes to you, I can let it slide." Seeing the questioning frown taking over his face, she asked, "Oliver, what I am wearing?"

That didn't help to ease the frown. "Your workout clothes?"

Sara nodded. "That answer's the reason why I let it slide. The fact that I can keep working out in my sports bra without feeling uncomfortable." She gave him a wink and gestured to the screens. "Get them to talk."

He kept from telling her that the screens had nothing to do with it, that it was the servers that needed to communicate, because smart-assing like that would seriously ruin the moment.

* * *

The silence was suspicious. The alley lay abandoned. The small gap between the four story buildings, it was nothing but uneven cement filled with puddles as rain drummed down mercilessly. The torrential downpour might make standing guard unpleasant (Felicity knew, cowering on a rooftop, heavy water drops beating down on her, soaking her hood, wasn't exactly her idea of a good time, either), but that wasn't an excuse not to have anybody on watch.

The door the Arrow stared at from the opposing building was supposed to lead to the hideout of The Mayor and his crew. The man with the codename involving a bad pun about shady politics had taken business from the local Bratvas. He was trying to establish himself as the guy providing weapons to Starling City's gangs and gangsters, getting them serious automatic and semi-automatic firepower, including armor-piercing ammunition. The first drive-by shooting performed with Mayor's weapons had been disastrous. The bullets had cut through the walls of several houses in the Glades, killing a mother making dinner for her children and a little girl doing her homework. Felicity didn't approve of gang members killing each other, but innocents getting caught in the crossfire added a new dimension: Felicity wouldn't stand by while young, unsuspecting lives were taken. Not again.

It was this thought that made it impossible for Felicity to head back to the Factory without checking inside the alleged mayoral headquarters. The lack of guards, the dead silence, the complete lifelessness screamed 'trap' to Felicity. Ignoring the trail of water running down her spine, she let her eyes sweep over the building, trying to decide on the best access point. The thick chipboards nailed in front of the windows made them a bad choice. Anything could wait for her behind the boarded up windows, and crashing through those was best left for truly desperate situations. It might be the Mayor's way of directing her path through the front door and into an ambush, Felicity knew, but decided that she was willing to take that risk.

Not thinking any further, she drove a grappling hook into the rooftop next to her. Her decent slowed by a rope, her feet touched down on the wet cement soundlessly. The main door had a huge glass window. Darkness lay behind it. Testing the door knob, Felicity found it unlocked. Okay, definitely a trap. Her opponents being members of a weapon-crazy organization gave her a very clear idea of what to expect when she showed her silhouette in the doorframe: a cascade of bullets spitting her way out of multiple weapons.

With a quick flick of her wrist, she pulled the door open. It rattled in its hinges as the Arrow raced to the other side of the building.

The silence continued. Not one bullet sped past Felicity, not the slightest sound could be heard from the inside. _Enough_ , Felicity decided and entered the building, her bow drawn.

She made two steps into the darkness when suddenly there was light. Red laser beams crisscrossed around her, trapping her, rooting her to the spot as she froze into position. The perfectly sharpened arrowhead and a red beam were only separated by a hair's breadth. Felicity slowed her breathing. Out of the corner of her eyes she saw a different kind of red light. A camera had switched on, somebody was watching her.

 _"Welcome, Arrow. Nice of you to come. After all, we set this up just for you."_ A very pleased voice sounded from a speaker hanging in the right corner of the otherwise empty, squared room. _"This place is rigged with enough C4 to take down the whole block. We have a betting pool on how long you'll make it without moving a muscle."_ He stopped for cheap effect. _"Twenty seconds so far, longer than most of us thought. Most voted for instant death. So, Arrow, thank you for helping us clear the area to make room for our bigger and better city hall. You won't be missed, as you are bad for business and we can't have that."_

A clicking sound from the speaker told Felicity that that connection was cut, but the red light of the camera stayed lit.

Felicity was awfully aware of the water dripping from her, creating a puddle of water around her feet. If one drop passed through a laser beam, it'd be the end of her. Slowly, Felicity let her eyes sweep her surroundings, taking a closer, more careful look. In the red glow of the lasers she saw a bare floor, walls covered with moldy wallpaper, some coming off the wall, revealing equally moldy walls and wires installed hazardously. They ran above the wall, and now that Felicity had seen them she could made out the lumps they formed underneath the still attached wallpapers. Following them drew her eyes to one spot right opposite her. All wires seemed to meet there behind the wallpaper.

She had two options. Both held the danger of potentially dying, but one meant involving other people, which was selfish but also probably increased her chances of survival. She chose that one, because she (selfishly) liked better odds in her favor.

Her fingers clamped down on the arrow while she let go of the bowstring. Her eyes fixed on the arrowhead and the red beams around it, forcing the first to stay away from the latter while her right hand fumbled with the zipper of her jacket to get to com-system Oliver had spent Monday night installing. Sara had suggested an emergency channel in case Felicity faced another accountant. Sadly, Felicity didn't really remember Oliver's lengthy explanation about how to switch from voice modulation to calling the Factory. She simply pressed down on the various buttons on the inside of her jacket.

 _"Felicity?"_

Relief filled her as she heard Oliver's voice in her ear. Thank God.

He sounded timid. _"Did you push the button by accident? Because you just sent a huge feedback relay through our speaker system."_

Felicity drew her bow again, taking the pressure off her aching fingers while keeping the arrow in place. "I'm in a bit of the situation," she whispered, moving her lips as little as possible. The Mayor and his city hall gang were still watching her, she was sure.

 _"Tell me,"_ Sara demanded.

"The building is rigged with C4."

 _"Detonator?"_

"Movement sensors attached to laser beams."

 _"So, the Mayor is the cliché_ and _flashy type."_

"They're watching me."

Clicking hit Felicity's ears even before Oliver said, _"I'll try to access the feed."_

Felicity could hear Oliver working while Sara asked, _"Do you have a plan?"_

"More like a bad idea."

 _"Stay still,"_ Oliver ordered (there was a certain bossy tone in his voice that was new, Felicity noticed, but she couldn't help but approve of take-charge-Oliver, which should be analyzed at a later time). _"Don't talk, don't do anything. I'm recording the feed to send a loop back to the Mayor. Hold up."_

The following silence felt very long, but it were probably only ten seconds, in which Felicity's muscles started to ache more and more. Finally, Sara spoke up again. _"Okay, done. Tell us about your bad idea."_

"The camera and the motion sensors need electricity. And there's a fuse box right opposite me."

 _"That_ is _a bad idea!"_ Sara chided. _"If I were the Mayor I'd made sure the bomb can't be defused by cutting electricity to its detonators. I'd made sure that that set it off."_

"Luckily, you aren't the Mayor." Felicity pressed out. "He thought I'd run into the lasers instantly." It was only a whisper (because around bombs you had to lower your voice—it was an unwritten rule made by instinct without any grounds whatsoever), but it was a very heated whisper. "My arms are getting heavy and if you don't come up with a better idea in the next ten seconds I'll shoot at the fuse box blindly, but I'd hoped you could maybe give me at hint of what to shoot at."

 _"Hold up,"_ Oliver again. _"I'm already looking for schematics."_

 _"Fe,"_ Sara said, _"I can be there in… ten minutes on my bike. You know I know bombs."_

"I know. But I don't think I have ten more minutes in me." Felicity felt a droplet of sweat trail down her temple, the flexed muscles in her arms were close to shaking, she knew once that happened it wouldn't be long before the beams tightly crisscrossing around her arrow and the body of the bow were triggered.

 _"I'm in,"_ Oliver announced.

"There's a bigger wire coming up from the floor," Felicity said. "Is that good to shoot?"

 _"One moment,"_ Oliver mumbled, sounding distracted. Felicity inhaled measuredly, because what followed felt like a very, very long moment. Finally, he said. _"Yes, shoot at that one."_

Felicity didn't even hesitate. The arrow had been aimed already and hit its destination perfectly. Electric sparks sprayed out as the arrow severed the cable, a bright flicker of light that was followed by darkness and silence. Both felt absolutely perfect.

 _"Felicity?"_

Oliver's worried voice snapped her out of her relieved breathing. "It worked. It's okay. I'm okay." The sighs hitting her ear sounded like tension dissolving. Felicity could very much relate to that. "Thank God the Mayor knows his guns but not his bombs. Every once in a while a girl just has to get lucky." An amused huff hit Felicity's ears. As her last words replayed in her head, she felt herself blush under her hood. Pressing her lips together, forcing the awkward explanation dancing on the tip of her tongue to stay unsaid, she turned around quickly. "Oliver, can you find out where the camera feed's transmitted to?"

 _"Are you sure you're in the right headspace to confront him?"_ Sara asked.

"Oh," Felicity huffed, marching out of the building. "I'm in the perfect headspace for that."

* * *

The Mayor might not be the best with bombs, but he knew when to retreat. The alley Oliver directed Felicity to had been abandoned. Only a technical device and tire marks left behind told tales of a surveillance team in a van.

This whole Saturday night (aka getting soaked, nearly blown up, and ultimately nowhere!) put the Mayor right on top of Felicity's list.

Metaphorically speaking, of course. She didn't have an _actual_ list. That'd be crazy.

The metallic steps leading to the Factory rattled under her feet. Oliver and Sara stood next to each other by his desk, watching Felicity head toward them. "Is that pizza?" Sara asked in disbelief.

"I thought you deserved a little something for helping me not get blown up." She set the pizza boxes down on the middle table and pulled her soaked hood back, revealing grease-smeared eyes and tightly pulled back hair. "Tony's, best pizza in the Glades."

"Are you telling me the Arrow walked into Tony's and ordered pizzas to go?" Oliver sounded half-amused and half-appalled.

"Of course not. I arranged a drop-off." She opened a box. "Do you want to eat or keep asking questions?"

After sharing a quick look with Sara, Oliver led the way over.

"You will be monitored from now on," Sara stated.

"What?"

"Going out. There'll be an audio connection open to us at all times."

Felicity looked at her friends. "You want to watch me from the Factory?"

"Technically," Oliver cut in, "this is a foundry, not a factory."

Blankly, Felicity stared at him, because, seriously, "That's what you took from my question?"

"I believe in spreading the knowledge."

"And I believe in back-up," Sara brought the conversation back on track, using her no-nonsense voice. "I don't know how you survived without us until now."

"Well, I would've shot at the big wire anyway, so…." Seeing Sara's mockingly raised eyebrows, Felicity deflated a little. Sara was right and she knew it. Felicity nodded. "Thank you for your help," she said sincerely. "Having back-up sounds like a good idea."

Obviously satisfied, Sara took two slices out of the opened pizza box. "I'll take these to go and head home." Not giving the others time to react, she added, "Goodnight, guys."

Felicity watched her best friend climb up the stairs. Turning back to Oliver, she was suddenly awfully aware that they were alone—for the first time in a week. She couldn't help but smile at the dirt smeared over his forehead, wondering what he had done for it to end up there. Their eyes met and Felicity said, "I noticed you didn't eat anything today. You must be hungry."

"I have a tendency to get lost in my work."

"I know the feeling." She gestured toward the bathroom. "I'll just quickly change."

He answered with a nod and Felicity rushed into the bathroom, exchanging wet green leather with the outfit she had chosen this morning: a black shirt and a soft yellow skirt. She took the time to clean her face, apply some mascara and lip gloss, and brush her hair. When she headed back to the main room, Oliver set two mugs down onto the table. She felt his eyes sweep over her and saw a small smile show on his face. He motioned to a bottle standing next to the pizza boxes. "We only have soda."

"Perfect," Felicity decided and sat down while Oliver filled the coffee mugs. Reaching for one, she waited for him to sit down in the chair next to her to raise her mug. "To your quick thinking and quick hacking."

The faintest blush reddened Oliver's cheeks. "I think we should toast to my movie knowledge instead." Seeing the frown on Felicity's face, he added in explanation, "Speed. With Keanu Reeves. And Sandra Bullock?" He tilted his head, seemingly amused. "It's a 90s movie, you don't have any excuse for not knowing it."

"Fine," Felicity huffed, playfully. "Then let's toast to your _speedy_ thinking."

"Clever," he complimented, still amused, and clicked his mug to hers.

Her eyes fixed his, needing him to know how serious she was. "Thank you, Oliver."

"Of course," he said, turning serious, too. "I'm your back-up."

"I'm glad you are."

"That was really intense earlier." Oliver said, his voice strained. "Don't ever do that again, okay?"

She saw the worry and sensed that he kept himself from saying more. "I'll give it my all."

"And I'll give it my all to keep you from getting blown up."

"I know you will." They held each other's gazes for a few heartbeats longer before taking a sip of their sodas and finally grabbing slices. They were lukewarm.

"What happened with the com-system, by the way?" Oliver asked between bites. "The feedback wave was huge. Didn't switching channels work?"

"Oh. Um…." Feeling slightly uneasy and caught, Felicity let the hand with her half-eaten slice sink. That action visibly caught Oliver's interest. "I… only had one hand and I had to make sure the arrow stayed in place and I… maybe, kind of, might have not have really remembered what you explained to me…." Felicity's face twisted in the silence that followed.

To her surprise, a chuckle ended it. "You really are your mother's daughter." Oliver's eyes sparkled. The amusement was back.

"I feel like I should protest."

"Don't worry. I'll fool-proof the coms."

"Okay." Felicity stated. Then, "I do protest that!" She straightened up in her chair. "You should know that I managed to override a security system all by myself—and that was in Moscow, meaning Cyrillic letters and everything."

The sentences left Felicity's lips without second thought. In the following dead silence the unspoken information they brought blinked in bright colors, snapping her out of her teasing mood. Oliver stilled, too. He froze in his chair, his body angled toward her, his eyes on her.

Her words hung in the air between them, seemingly gaining form and texture, separating them in the proverbial sense, but Felicity couldn't have any kind of barrier growing between them, not even the metaphorical kind. She turned in her chair, facing him. Her voice was soft, "I wasn't on the island the whole time."

Slowly, Oliver nodded. He put the pizza down, placed it in the box on the table, and turned sideways in his chair toward her, focusing his sole attention, his beautiful blue eyes, on her. "I figured." He sounded calm, interested. "Where were you?"

"Moscow. For one." Uneasy, unsure how to continue but feeling the strong need to, she rubbed her index and middle finger above her eyebrow. She needed a moment to collect her thoughts, to decide how to tell him, how to give him a glimpse at the person he was willing to back-up. He deserved to know. Actually, she realized, he _needed_ to know. It was the only way they could work; there couldn't be any lies between them.

She let her hand drop, sat up in her chair, and met Oliver's gaze. He waited patiently for her to decide what to say, watching her closely. Her voice was calm and collected when she stated, "I was on the island for two years. Or close to the island for two years." Seeing the question in his eyes, she took a deep breath, knowing she had to give him more details. "It wasn't deserted. There were soldiers trying to shoot down a plane and there was this crazy… I don't want to call him a scientist. He was there to create super-soldiers, which I know sounds _insane_ —but insane pretty much defines those years perfectly. That quote-unquote 'scientist' had a freighter anchored offshore. I was there for a bit…. With Sara. I think she'll be okay with me telling you that. We got separated again when the military grabbed me and took me off the island and to Moscow to get this biological weapon from the Bratva—which piled on the crazy. So much more crazy." She sighed. "I drifted a little after that and ended up in Hong Kong with a woman named Chien Na Wei. I met her on the freighter at the island. She usually goes by the name China White. She's an important member of the Triad."

Felicity let the last word sink in. It did very quickly.

"You worked with the Triad?"

"For the Triad," she corrected, forcing herself to honestly put it out there for his consideration. She presented her right wrist to him. "I have the membership tattoo and everything."

"I don't see anything."

"Invisible ink. I have to be careful with black lights."

"Oh, don't worry, that trend didn't come back in the last five years."

"I guess you have to be thankful for small mercies."

Thoughtfully, he nodded. Once more silence settled around them. Felicity gave him a time to gather his thoughts, preparing herself for whatever reaction he might have. No reaction came. But she could see him thinking. She forced herself not to reach across the small gap separating them. Keeping her hands clasped in her lap, and keeping herself from making a physical connection he might not welcome, her shoulders slumped a little. Evading his eyes, she said, "I've done a lot of things I feel guilty about. I'm ashamed of so much. I made so many wrong decisions in the last five years. The whole time with the Triad was possibly the wrongest, because, back then, it was a conscious one. It felt like the best move at the time. I know that's inexcusable. I know that I can never make up for it. But I'm glad that you know, because you deserve to know what kind of person I am and—"

"Were." Oliver's strong voice cut right into her monologue. It stopped her ramble immediately and snapped her eyes to him. She saw nothing but seriousness in his features as he repeated. "What kind of person you _were_. You clearly left the Triad."

"I did."

"Why?"

Felicity inhaled soundly, preparing herself to lay more ugly truths at his feet. Her measured exhale took words with it. "It was the usual Triad business, a shipment of drugs coming in from Columbia. The supplier was new and using African channels to get the drugs to Hong Kong, and China decided that we should check out the goods ourselves. Only…." She forced herself to go on. "The goods weren't just drugs. In the container were also people, families, children. Locked in by traffickers. Those people were refugees, looking for a better life. They probably paid a lot of money to get into that container—and China had them all killed. I stood there and people around me were gunning innocent victims down and all I can remember is thinking: what are you doing here? What are you part of? That was the night I swore I'd never stand by watching somebody get hurt. _Never again._ I decided to use the skills I'd gained for good."

Tilting his head, Oliver studied her intently. Finally, he stated, "That's why you were so dead-set on going after the Mayor. Because of the innocent victims?"

"That's huge part of it, yes."

Another few heartbeats of silence followed. Oliver's serious voice ended it. "Felicity," he said, catching her attention. "Welcome to the light side."

A chuckle that was firmly founded in relief escaped her. "Yes." She huffed. "And I get that reference."

"Thank God," he was mock-serious. "If you didn't, I'd seriously have to consider quitting."

All humor fled from Felicity immediately. She fixed him, willing him to see how much she meant her next words. "You _should_ seriously consider that, Oliver. What I've done…. I was very much on the dark side of things and—"

"Felicity." Again he cut her off. Again Felicity's heart jumped at the way he said her name. "How many times are you going to tell me to stay away from you?"

Hope gathered inside her. "I thought, just this one last time?"

"Okay. Good." He gave a forceful nod. "Then we're done with that."

"Just like that? How?"

Hesitation clouded around him for a second, but dissolved with him reaching out, bridging the small gap between them and putting his hand over her clasped ones. "You said you knew you could trust me after the warehouse. Same goes for me. You've done so much, you've saved so many people's lives—including mine. The person I've met is very much on the light side. And that's all that matters to me: who you are now, the woman I know. And I happen to like her."

"Good," she breathed, closing her hand around his. "'Cause I happen to like you, too."

A smile played around his mouth but vanished with a fierce expression taking over. This time she knew he was absolutely serious about everything he said next, "I know you've been through a lot, Felicity. I wish you didn't have to live through so many horrible things. But… whatever experiences you had to go through, they shaped the person you are today. And I'd like to get to know her even better, but I am already sure that she's a good person. Don't let anybody tell you anything else."

She stared at him in happy awe, her eyes sparkling. Her heart beat heavily, but it was joy speeding up its tact. And it was that joy that brought her to her feet before she really registered what she was doing. A warm sensation flooded her chest, danced up and down her spine and there was only one possible way to express all that positivity filling her.

Her hand let go of his and instead she reached for his cheeks, feeling the barest stubble. Their eyes locked. Standing in front of him, being only slightly taller than sitting Oliver, cupping his face, she gently touched her lips to his. Her eyes fluttered shut instantly, automatically, and her normally heightened senses zoomed in on their connected lips. All she registered was how warm and soft his lips were, how he kissed her back immediately, how his hand came to rest on her hip, tenderly but somewhat shyly. It was a chaste connection, but it tilted Felicity's world for a second as her heartbeat spiked with the perfection of the moment. An overwhelming mix of the emotions roamed through her that could strangely by summed up in one very simple sentence: this felt right.

Slowly their lips parted again. Felicity's eyes opened just in time with his, connecting instantly. The blue in his sparkled in the most amazing way, and she was digging her brain for something to say, but all of this had rendered her strangely speechless. She tried to say it all with a smile.

The smile he answered with told her clearly that he approved and agreed.

"You said you wanted to get to know me better." The sentence passed her lips without being approved by her brain. "Which I know you didn't mean sexually." The realization she had made a not so bad statement really bad made her flinch. Her hands fell from his face. "Not that I'm expecting—"

"Felicity." His hand on her hip tightened, keeping her close to him. "I've spent enough time with you and Sara to not do the whole silence-you-with-a-kiss-thing, but I'd like to kiss you again, if that's okay."

"That's okay. And you have my permission to keep me from putting my foot in my mouth by using yours." She groaned, unhappily, because, really, what was wrong with her? Oliver chuckled. "Why aren't you kissing me yet?"

In the next moment he was and—yup—it was as perfect as the first one. Maybe even better, because now both his hands were her hips, moving to her back, bringing her closer to him. And her arms were around his shoulders, and her fingers combed through his hair and it was less doubtful, more agreeing, the wordless affirmation of everything she hoped for. Her lips parted, as did his, and their tongues tipped against each other playfully. They gave each other a moment of exploring, filled with a slow and seeking dance.

Breathing heavily, they parted. Resting her forehead against his, they gazed in each other's eyes. Felicity found agreement in it, the confirmation that there wasn't any rush and that more kissing would surely follow but that today—after the dangers and revelations—wasn't the day for that. Pecking his lips, she sat back down, finally noticing her surroundings again. She motioned to the table next to them. "Guess the pizza's cold now."

He nodded, but reached for his half-eaten slice anyway. "It is, but since we're getting to know each other, I'll let you in on a secret: I think pizza's better when it's cold."

"Wow," Felicity stated in mock shock. "I can't believe you're sharing such a big thing with me."

"I know," he faked seriousness. "It comes as a shock to most people."

Felicity smirked and reached for her slice again.

"Full disclosure," Oliver said, "I think cold pizza's the perfect breakfast. I usually save some slices as what I call 'breakfast pizza'." He shrugged, playfully. "Getting to know each other—one ugly truth at a time."

Felicity couldn't help but laugh. Her hand fell to Oliver's knee for a gentle squeeze and one thought repeated in her head: this, all of this, just felt right.


	12. I know that's not who you are anymore

I hope you haven't forgotten about me or this story. I know it's been forever and I can't thank you enough for all your patience, your understanding, and the encouraging feedback you sent me. It means a lot to me. Thank you!

 **Albiona** , thank you for taking the time to get this chapter to me despite everything. You are amazing. And just so you know: I still love us and our pretty and well-used brains. ;)

I hope all had/have a good Easter. Love, Jules

* * *

 **I know that's not who you are anymore**

It felt like a Throwback Thursday—on a Saturday.

Felicity wished Oliver were here to appreciate her pop culture referencing quip. After all, he had been the one to introduce her to the term when showing her an old photo from the set of Star Trek... Wars... Star Wars. (That was the one with the Jedis and the Force and the guy in the black mask who was Luke's father. Felicity was really good with remembering things, so she needed to remember to tell that Star-stuff apart to avoid getting _that_ look from Oliver.)

Standing in the third changing cubicle of the day, trying on the twentieth (but who was counting) pair of skinny jeans, Felicity couldn't shake the feeling of being transported back in time. Before boarding the family's private yacht, she had gone shopping with her mother regularly. They had spent hours wandering from store to store, modeling clothes for each other, and coming home with way too many bags.

This whole trip came with a sense of déja-vu: the behavior of her mother was so familiar, the situation so well-practiced, the environment perfectly interchangeable, making Felicity feel like the odd woman out. It showed her how much she had changed, how much it wasn't five years ago, because as she shimmied into another pair of tight pants (black this time, she had insisted on some black in her wardrobe) she vowed that this one was the last store. She didn't have the stamina for a whole day filled with shopping anymore. It felt too much like a waste of time.

The last button closed, Felicity pushed the curtain back with a loud 'swoosh', revealing herself to her mother. Donna Smoak-Lance sat comfortably on a plush red chair in the otherwise empty changing area—the private one, reserved for the costumers coming with big money and the prospect of a huge commission.

Felicity was trying on skinny jeans tagged around $300 in a private changing room and it just felt uncomfortably decadent.

"Turn," Donna directed with a twirl of her hand.

Felicity did as she was told, but couldn't help but say, "We've already bought five pairs. I honestly think that's enough."

"Not if that sixth pair makes your butt look like that."

Craning her neck, Felicity looked down her backside. Donna huffed. "There's a mirror, sweetie." Seeing the slightly caught look crossing her daughter's face, she added an encouraging smile. "Felicity, I know that after years of nothing it must seem weird to you, I can feel how awkward all this is for you. But having money and spending it is nothing to be ashamed about. We work hard for that money."

"You work hard for that money," Felicity corrected.

"I do. And I like to spend it on you and buy you clothes." She smirked and added, as if it were an afterthought (which it clearly wasn't), "I'm also more than willing to pay for classes if you want to get your MBA and start earning part of our money."

Now it was Felicity huffing. "Yeah, 'cause that worked perfectly the last four times."

Absolute seriousness shone from her mother's face. "You're not the same person you were back then. I told you before: stop trying to pretend like you are."

A wave of affection crashed through Felicity. Lacking words to adequately express it, she simply nodded, combining agreement, acknowledgement, and thankfulness in one gesture.

Donna answered with a nod and smile of her own. Breaking the both heavy and light moment, Donna Smoak-Lance gestured to her daughter's legs. "And we're getting those pants."

"Fine. But this is the last store. Seriously, I'm done shopping."

"I had a feeling you'd say that." Donna got up from her seat just as a shop assistant pushed a clothes rack in as if she had been waiting for the signal.

"This is a sampling of dresses from our next collection," the assistant motioned toward the rack, the bracelets around her wrist chiming with the movement. "I stuck to your specifics, Mrs. Smoak-Lance: short but high-collared." She reached for a red dress, first presenting its front, then turning it around. "This one does have a cut-out in the back, that's a big feature next season." With a polite smile she faced Felicity. "It'll help you regain your position as a trendsetter."

Right. Because that mattered to Felicity. She ignored the woman and instead fixed her mother with a look. "I have enough dresses."

"You can never have enough dresses," Donna dismissed, contemplating the red dress. "You look good in red, but I'm unsure about the cut-out. Would you feel comfortable with that?" She glanced at her daughter, probably trying to recall if the cut-out was positioned to reveal the burn mark on her lower back.

It was. "No," Felicity answered. "I wouldn't."

The shop assistant seemed disappointed (the little piece of red cloth was probably really expensive), hanging the dress back. Donna dismissed the woman with a polite but meaningful smile, reached for a purple dress, and showed it to Felicity, "How about this one?"

"Mom," Felicity tried and failed to keep the annoyance out of her voice. "I don't need another dress."

"Yes, you do. You need an outfit for the Smoak-Lance Fundraising Gala next Saturday."

"The… what?"

"We host a gala every year to raise money and awareness for projects benefitting the Glades."

"Oh. I didn't know."

"That's why I'm telling you. Quentin started out in the Glades, his first precinct was there. He told me a lot about the things he experienced. It's been bad in that part of Starling for years—and Malcolm Merlyn detonating bombs across the district didn't exactly improve things." Donna shook her head. "That man has always been a lunatic, but leveling a whole city block to avenge his deceased wife was a lot, even for him." She tried to sound flippant, but it was a bad act, evaporating quickly. Seriousness wrapped around Donna again. "The Glades and the people who live there need our help. They need to be offered opportunities—and our fundraiser supports tutoring projects for kids, scholarships, little league. Stuff like that. And I expect you to show your support."

"Of course," Felicity hurried to say, because she recognized her mother's no-nonsense voice and because she was very much in support of that cause. "I'll be there."

Donna's face softened. "Good. I expect you to show up with your plus one."

That, on the other hand, didn't have Felicity's full support. "What?"

"Your plus one," Donna repeated. "And it can't be Sara, because Quentin already told her she has to be there. I heard his end of the talk on the phone and it involved the threat of dragging her down to the gala in handcuffs if she didn't show up voluntarily. I don't even think he was joking." A frown showed on her face. "Should we get a dress for Sara, too?"

"Sara doesn't wear dresses." Her own words registered within her and she shook her head. Bringing the conversation back to the main point, Felicity asked "And why do I have to bring a plus one?"

"Why not?" Her mother raised a challenging eyebrow. "You have a plus one, don't you?"

"Mom," Felicity sighed the word in annoyance and was shocked how much she sounded like a huffy teenager. She cleared her throat before continuing. "I asked you to let me do this in my own speed."

"That was two weeks ago."

"I didn't know there was a time limit."

"There wasn't—but then I realized you weren't getting anywhere." Donna sighed. With an audible click she hung the purple dress back on the rack. "Felicity, please, just answer one question: do you care about Oliver?"

"Yes." The word was past her lips before she could even contemplate not answering.

"Then I don't see a problem." Donna hesitated. "Unless… it's true what people say and you're ashamed of him."

"What?! I'm _not_ ash—" Felicity gasped. "Who says that?"

"The gossip circles at Smoak International. People say you either hit him and quit him—or you're hiding him. Because you haven't been seen together lately."

Anger collected within Felicity and, unable to mask it, vibrated in her voice, "Okay. That's offensive. On many levels. Why would I be ashamed of a super smart and super nice man? Super good-looking, too. I don't understand how people can't see past the glasses and nerdy shirts—which he _rocks_ , by the way. So why would I quit him? People! Seriously!" Reconsidering her heated rant, the anger dissolved a little, leaving behind the need to clarify, "Not that I hit him—we haven't…." She bit down on her lower lip to keep herself from telling her mother things that were none of her mother's business and that really shouldn't be discussed in a changing room—or in general.

Seeing the smirk on her mother's face, Felicity decided to change directions. "Oliver said things were fine at SI. He enjoys working at the new department, said people were cool and excited about the project he suggested to improve cyber security."

"Oh, I'm sure things are good with the other nerds," Donna dismissed with a wave of her hand. "Harold, the department head, is smitten with Oliver and his skills. Those are his people. It's the rest of SI who are running their mouths. He might not even know what they're saying."

"But you know?"

"Of course! I need to know what's going on at my company. Luckily, Gerry's very much into gossip. He keeps me informed."

"Yeah. Lucky you…." Felicity tipped her head to the side, studying her mother. Suspicion tugged at her, founded in a question she couldn't answer: why did her mother care if Oliver was being gossiped about? It didn't add up exactly. Straightening up, she crossed her arms in front of her chest. "Neither Oliver nor I knew about those rumors. So why do you care?"

Donna opened her mouth and closed it again. Her posture, her face, her eyes softened. "Because that's not who you are anymore." The tenderness in her mother's voice made Felicity's hands fall to her sides again, her heartbeat speeding up the barest bit as she met her mother's glistening eyes. Donna took a step toward her daughter. "The partying, the carelessness, the hitting and quitting, the using boys—you grew past that and I hate that people don't see it, see how much you've matured. I know that you have a lot of demons, Felicity. I can see them. But despite them, you have turned into a person who cares. And that's something I love seeing."

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Felicity tried to think of something to say.

Her mother spared her, continuing, fondly, "That's why I want you to invite Oliver. To shut those people up, to end those rumors. I know it's stupid. Quentin called it 'gobbeldy-goop' or something like that. I know he's right. I know I shouldn't care, but I can't help it."

Felicity looked at her mother, seeing the seriousness mixing with slight embarrassment on Donna's face. Warmth spread within Felicity. It was a strange compliment, being told that you were once awful but turned better—and it meant a lot to Felicity. She could acknowledge the truth of it: she _had_ been awful. She disliked her old self and her selfish, careless quest for fun. She didn't want to be that person anymore, she didn't feel like Fe Smoak anymore, and it felt so good to hear her mother confirm that change. She smiled. "Okay," she said, finding her voice coated with emotion. She swallowed again. "I'll ask Oliver to be my plus one."

A wide smile took over Donna's face. "Wonderful!" She gestured to the rack with a twinkle in her eyes. "And look: there's a black dress here, too."

Felicity sighed with an air of amusement. "Okay. I'll try it on."

* * *

Spending the evening in a drafty industrial cellar had turned into Oliver's idea of a perfect Saturday—or any other day of the week, really.

Spending time in the Factory meant feeling useful, facing challenges, being part of a team, being part of something bigger and better than himself. It meant a sense of accomplishment, a purpose that made him feel fulfilled in a way he had never experienced before.

Not long ago his life had consisted of fixing server problems and being bored at work, heading home to his laptop and his PS4. He hadn't noticed the loneliness in that—but he had been lonely despite Diggle and Myron and their weekly gaming-sessions, despite the people he chatted with online about coding, gaming, and all the reasons why the US government shouldn't build a Death Star (mainly due to some _major_ design/security flaws), and despite his 500 Facebook friends.

Now his days consisted of challenges he and his SI colleagues created for themselves and his evenings were filled with helping bringing down bad guys. His life had purpose, and he was surrounded by people.

He was around Felicity.

She made a drafty industrial cellar feel like the perfect place to be. The smile she welcomed him with as he headed down the stairs to the Factory's basement made his heart swell. "Hey," he greeted as he headed toward her.

Bow in hand and quiver on her back, she stepped away from the basket filled with tennis balls. "Hey," she answered and met him by his desk. Placing her hand on his arm, she looked up at him, tilting her head back slightly.

Bowing down, he kissed her, sweetly, gently. Greeting her with a kiss had turned into a ritual he didn't second guess anymore—but it hadn't turned ordinary for him. Kissing her, feeling her soft lips against his, was an extraordinary pleasure leaving him tingly and happy.

Ever since their not-really-a-date-date with cold pizza, barriers had fallen. That evening had signaled the go-ahead for more kissing, touching, a connection, a togetherness they both knew was there. Neither ever labeled it, there wasn't any need for it, they just knew. Oliver could feel it, more and more with each kiss, each touch.

Slowly they parted. Keeping his face close to hers, he smiled. He had to, it was the only way to deal with the positivity inside him. It grew when he saw the way Felicity returned his smile. Her eyes shining made something in his chest flutter. It was sappy and corny, but he didn't care, because it felt too good. They gave each other a few long seconds to gaze at each other before Oliver straightened up and motioned toward the basket filled with yellow balls. "What's this?"

"Target practice. Wanna help?"

"Sure," he said and followed her toward it. "Where's Sara?"

"I don't know. I thought she'd be here." She motioned toward the basket. "Bounce a ball."

Standing next to him, she was absolutely relaxed, her posture and muscles at ease. Her arms hung by her side, her right holding her bow loosely while her arrows were stored in her quiver, fletching peeking over her shoulder. There was nothing about her that screamed "battle ready" to Oliver. He quirked an eyebrow. "Don't you want to aim?"

"No."

He bit back a smirk. Her answer sounded very casual, but Oliver saw the gleam in her eyes, fueled by self-assuredness. He liked her confidence. (He wished she'd be more confident when it came to things other than her vigilante-business, but he had yet to find the right way or time to tell her that.) "Fair enough." He picked up the first ball.

It turned into a yellow blur as Oliver threw it at the floor. It bounced high and quickly—and was nailed to the wall in the next moment. The arrow was sliced through its middle perfectly, its head rooted in the concrete. Felicity had drawn her bow and aimed in a heartbeat. Oliver had known before that her confidence was justified, founded in serious skills, but witnessing it still impressed him, filled him with pride on her behalf. This time he didn't hide his smirk and reached for another ball. It was pinned above the other one only seconds later. He picked up two more, bouncing them simultaneously, and asked, "How was the shopping trip with your mom?"

Two arrows cut through the air in rapid succession, hitting their targets perfectly. "I now own black clothes—and pants."

He chuckled. "That sounds like a success."

"It was." She turned to Oliver, placing her attention on him and keeping him from throwing another ball. "How are things at work?"

Oliver frowned. "They're good. Really, really good. Why?" He stiffened. "Did your mother say something? I know my supervisor had a meeting with her, but I thought he was pleased with my work."

"He is," Felicity hurried to say. "Very pleased. You're nerd of month." A heartbeat of silence followed. Her eyes snapped to him. "I mean that fondly, not judge-y. You know that, right?"

The frown still on Oliver's face turned slightly darker as confusion mixed with worry. The emotional combination brought the need to ease _her_ worries. "I do know that." It was the truth; she had never given him any reason to doubt it.

"Good." The tension left her body as quickly as it came. "That's the most important thing. But I need to stop using the word—before somebody else hears it and gets the wrong idea."

Hearing the statement but not understanding its true meaning made _his_ worries grow. "Felicity," Oliver said, stepping into her personal space. "What's going on?"

She met his eyes. "Would you like to go to a charity thing with me next Saturday?"

"What?! Why?"

"Because my mom wants me to come and bring somebody and you're the only one I want to be my plus one."

His first reaction was a smile. It just popped up on his face. Her easy declaration in a matter-of-fact tone came with an implicitness. The simplicity of it, the sincerity, and the sureness made his heart dance. It was one of the reasons why falling for her was natural, a reflex close to breathing. She made things easy for him, put herself and her feelings out there, let him know what she wanted, how she felt about him. He never had to guess with her and that allowed him to do the same, step up with her and dare an amount of honesty that was unheard of from him. He had never experienced that before, that lack of playing games and dancing around your feelings, and he had spent the whole night after their improvised date debating how it was possible that she was like that after everything she had experienced. Maybe, he had contemplated around five in the morning, he had it all wrong and her experiences were the exact reason why she didn't have the patience for playing games, why she was brave enough to just to go for what she wanted, why she wanted a connection. It still boggled his mind that she wanted a connection with _him_ —but he never doubted that she did. That's why he also knew she used the word "nerd" fondly, even if peop—

The instant smile vanished from his face as the basic meaning of 'plus one' finally really registered within him. "You want me to go to a charity thing with you—like accompany you to mingle with the one percent?"

"Yes."

"No."

"No?"

"Yes."

She blinked up at him. "Did you just say 'no' to being my plus one?"

"No."

"Yes, you did. You turned me down."

"No." His eyes were glued to hers, needing her to see how much he meant his next words. "I want to be your plus one—generally speaking, but I don't belong with the one percenters."

"Oh, Oliver. You're such a smart guy, don't be so stupid." She sighed, shaking her head, the high ponytail she always wore during training trailing behind her. She reached for his hand. "It's a lame party with dressed-up people and probably a string quartet—there's always a string quartet. There'll be good food and horrible conversations. Small-talk. Lots of it. Which I will fail at. I, not you. There's nothing about it adequate to make you feel inadequate—because you aren't. I wouldn't force you through it if it wasn't a Smoak-Lance organized fundraiser for the Glades. We're basically doing this for my mom."

"If your mother—who's my boss—knew you'd bring me, she wouldn't have asked you to come with a plus one."

"She knows I'll bring you. It's the only reason she insisted."

He gawked at Felicity. He waited for that statement to make sense. It didn't. "What?"

"Mom wants you to improve my reputation."

Seriously! "What?"

"There are rumors at SI about you either being my one-night stand or my guilty pleasure secret—which are both equally offensive and I apologize. My mother wants people to know that I grew up and matured into a person capable of having more than just sex with a man."

"I never heard those rumors. How does your mother, CEO of the whole thing, know about them?"

"Gerry. Plus you're in that computer department bubble."

"Advanced Computer Science Department bubble."

"Yes," she smirked. "That." Her hand tightened around his. "Will you be my plus one, boost my reputation, and save me from failing at small-talk?"

"Yes."

The smirk grew. "That's the answer I was hoping for _two minutes ago_."

"Well, you said the food's good, so…" he teased. Seeing an understanding spark in her eyes, he leaned in for another kiss. His eyes closed as her hand settled on his face, cupping his cheek. His hands moved to her hips and slid to her back, bringing her closer as he deepened the kiss and her hand wandered to the back of his head. He got lost in feeling her warmth, in tasting her as his tongue danced around hers, in hearing a soft sigh escape her. Their kissing was slow and sensual and Oliver felt strangely out of breath when they parted.

Gazing into her eyes, he saw his own desires swim in hers. She was on her tip-toes, leaning up to him, and he could feel her muscles move as she strained to bridge the small gap between their faces to kiss him again, but a metallic rattling stopped her. Both turned their heads to the stairs. Sara marched toward them, a grim determination on her face.

Oliver's hands instantly flew from Felicity's back, but Felicity didn't seem caught or uneasy in the slightest. Instead, she brought her right to his cheek once more (it must be scratchy, he realized, he hadn't shaved today, because it was Saturday and he took the weekend off from the chore of shaving), sent him a small smile that held a promise, and only then did she place her full attention on Sara and stepped away from him. "I tried to call you."

Sara stopped behind Oliver's desk. "I know. I was tailing the Mayor. I found his new city hall."

Felicity's body tightened, her muscles flexed, her shoulder squared, her chin rose the barest bit. Oliver noticed the shift, saw all the lightness, teasing, and softness vanish from her. He knew that Felicity and the Arrow were the same person, but there was a certain distinction between both women. And the woman walking around the desk was the vigilante, getting ready to confront a guy who had gunned down a blood drive in the Glades two days ago. (And Oliver was sure that the five people with fatal bullet wounds plus the ten wounded were more prominently on Felicity's mind than the fact that the guy had tried to blow _her_ up before that.)

"Where is it?"

"Corner of Adams and O'Neil."

Felicity nodded and moved toward the glass case. "I'll suit up."

"I'll back you up," Sara stated and walked to the drawer that stored her guns and ammunition.

Detective Lance had been at the blood drive and the possibility of her father being hurt, or worse, shook Sara. They had been at the Factory when the news of the shooting had reached them. Oliver remembered how she had fumbled to put on her black leather jacket in her hurry to get to the scene. Detective Lance hadn't been injured, but the Mayor had endangered the wrong girl's father (and the wrong girl's stepfather).

Felicity's steps faltered only for a second. Stopping next to the case, she watched Sara, whose attention was on her weaponry. Mentally Oliver prepared himself for a fight. The chances were fifty-fifty that Felicity told Sara she couldn't come with her—which led to a one hundred percent chance of Sara blowing up at Felicity. Luckily, Felicity only inhaled audibly and reached for her suit.

Seeing that snapped Oliver into action. He rounded the desk to get to his keyboard. "I'll check if there are blueprints of the building. Maybe we can get an idea of what you're walking into." He was already facing the screens, accessing the back door he'd installed last week in the department of building regulations. His plus one and her best friend were going out to confront an arms dealer with a loose trigger finger. He'd do his part to keep both of them safe.


	13. What's with the fancy-fancy?

I know I say it all the time but I don't think it will ever be enough: thank you very much for being amazing and so supportive. I'm so delighted that so many of you enjoy this story—and that some of you enjoy it enough to suggest it for an award. The Guide to Vigilantism is nominated in The Fanatic Fanfics Multifandom Awards—and the Vegas-fic, too, which is even more breathtaking. Thank you very much. It's amazing, you're amazing.

 **Albiona** , thank you for everything—but with regards to this chapter: thank you for the little tweaks that make all the difference and things just better. *hug*

And now… time for a party—even if it's a stiff one. Enjoy!

* * *

 **What's with the fancy-fancy?**

Workaholism had never been Oliver's goal.

In high school and at M.I.T., Oliver had always worked hard. He studied for tests and exams, he did his homework methodically. Every project, club, and extracurricular got his full attention. Oliver Queen didn't believe in half-assing things. When he put his mind on something, he wanted it to be perfect. He liked solving problems and puzzles and sometimes he had the tendency to get lost in them.

All of that was rooted in interest, in fascination with a topic, in the desire to improve his skills and further his knowledge. It wasn't based on the need for money or power. Oliver didn't want to work 80-hour weeks for the sake of feeling important and irreplaceable, he didn't want self-worth to come from his work, only to suffer a stroke or a heart attack by the age of 55, or to burn out and realize he never spent one Sunday afternoon with his family. Smoak International employed quite a lot of those kinds of suited worker bees. During his time in the IT Department, Oliver had met them in their natural habitat quite often. And in the Legal Department and Accounting. They were probably real assets to SI, but Oliver couldn't help but wonder if they really liked what they were doing. Oliver also wondered if he had it all wrong by considering joy a factor in his work life.

And then he transferred to the Advanced Computer Science Department.

The ACS crew consisted of four other people plus their supervisor Harold Adler. Harold didn't have any leadership experience, he mostly evaded eyes while talking and he was absolutely unable to explain his ideas to people not educated in his field. Still—Harold was the best boss Oliver could imagine. He was a genius in the literal and actual sense. Everybody educated in the field, understanding the terms he threw around all the time, realized his genius instantly. Harold had designed and built his own keyboard to operate with only one hand—and it was a masterpiece. Making this man in his early fifties, who had been born with only one arm, head of ACSD was further proof of Mrs. Smoak-Lance's tendency to boldly go where no CEO had gone before. And to end up with great results.

All six people working at SI's newest department were qualified for and excited about the opportunities offered to them. They wanted to shape the venture, turning SI into a serious player in the field. They had been honestly giddy when Oliver had shown them the coded fragment based on the Arrow's security software (even though they obviously didn't know about the Arrow-involvement), seeing its potential and jumping on the chance to actually turn that into something. It felt like real teamwork, with people he liked and valued, and for the first time ever, Oliver looked forward to going to work.

But none of that made him bury himself in his work. He didn't mind adding an extra hour or two, but he also enjoyed calling it a night and driving to the Glades to spend the next hours with two woman he liked (even if he liked one of them in a different way than the other).

He enjoyed that, even if it meant sitting alone in the Factory, listening to people shooting at those women via com-connection. Even if that meant watching Felicity sew up a deep gash on her best friend's arm because Sara hadn't taken cover fast enough. The Mayor had been arrested (SCPD found him and his lieutenants in a house at Adams and O'Neil, tightly bound, and surrounded by evidence) and the team had gone out to celebrate with a Big Belly burger before Felicity and Oliver caught the midnight showing of the new James Bond (Felicity was completely unfazed by the fact that Bond is blonde now. For a woman so good with details she failed to see the significance of that.)

All things considered, he'd had an almost perfect night. (Sara getting injured was the only damper, really.)

The bottom-line of all that was a simple fact: Oliver Queen was happy with his life, with his work, with this routine that held just enough unpredictability.

Being called up to the top floor to have a look at Mrs. Smoak-Lance's computer, on the other hand, wasn't part of that. It was part of his more miserable work life that he's thought he'd left behind. He didn't feel like re-visiting it, because during the last month Mrs. Smoak-Lance had gone from exclusively being his boss to mostly being the mother of the woman he was spending his evenings with. Nothing good could come from the upcoming meeting, Oliver knew. It was a really crappy way to start his workweek.

Using the mirrored wall of the elevator, he fixed his tie. It was a little crinkled, because as of five minutes ago it had been stored in the bottom drawer of his desk. Ties weren't mandatory while working at the ACSD, but Harold had insisted they each have one handy… just in case. Oliver's reflection showed him that he had to improve his storing method to avoid wrinkles. And he still hadn't shaved. He had slept in this morning, forcing him to skip his trip to the gym and his stop at the coffee shop around the corner. Considering that, the scruff on his jaw had been the least of his problems—until now.

He sighed and the elevator stopped at its destination. The doors opened, revealing Gerry Conway waiting for him in the hall. Seeing the EA greet him with a smirk, Oliver said, "And here I thought my time as Mrs. Smoak-Lance's personal computer fixer was up."

The smirk on Gerry's face grew. "Is that your way of saying you missed me?"

"No." Oliver exited the elevator and felt the need to soften his very honest answer. "But go with it if it works for you."

Gerry chuckled. "Mrs. Smoak-Lance is waiting." He let his eyes trail over Oliver, walking next to him down the hall. A small smile played around the EA's lips and it left Oliver slightly uneasy, forcing himself not to bring his hand to his unshaven face or to fruitlessly try flattening his tie once more. Wordlessly the two men headed toward the glass office. As they approached, Mrs. Smoak-Lance got up from behind her desk to greet Oliver. "Mr. Queen." She offered her hand just as Gerry closed the door behind them, giving them privacy. Well, as much privacy as a fishbowl of an office could provide, anyway. "How are you?"

"Good, thank you." They shook hands. Oliver glanced toward her desk. "There's a problem with your computer?"

"No, that thing is fine—for once." She gestured to the sitting area and Oliver felt his hands get a little clammy. Uneasily, he sank down on the black leather chair opposite Mrs. Smoak-Lance.

Her smile didn't do anything to ease his worries. Neither did her next words, "Gerry suggested citing a computer problem to be more discreet. I hear the rumors are bad enough already."

Oliver pressed his lips together, struggling for an appropriate answer. The woman fixing him intently beneath her gaze was his boss's boss and his… plus one's mother, and Oliver didn't want to get on her bad side in either function. He sat ramrod straight in the chair, forcing himself to go with plausible deniability. "I don't pay much attention to rumors, Mrs. Smoak-Lance."

"That's a very good attitude," she complimented.

Her hands rested in her lap. Her legs folded neatly to the side, her blonde hair and her blue business suit impeccable, Mrs. Smoak-Lance looked and sounded entirely relaxed. Oliver studied her, trying to figure out who he was talking to, the CEO or the mother, hating the blurred lines and his awkward nervousness. He didn't know which version of Mrs. Smoak-Lance he wanted to talk to less. Or more. Or at all.

"Felicity told me you'll accompany her to our fundraiser."

Oliver nodded and forced himself to add words. "Yes, she asked me to."

"It's a very formal event. I asked Gerry to schedule an appointment with our tailor. He expects you today at five. It's a little last minute, but he assured me he'd get it done."

"Get what done?"

"Your suit. For the fundraiser."

"I have a suit." Oliver felt the need to clarify that. Because he did: he owned a suit. He had bought it for his M.I.T. graduation ceremony and it had been expensive (by his standards, anyway). He had worn it to his mother's second wedding, too, and to Thea's graduation, and he had planned on wearing it at the fundraiser. His defenses flared up without him being able to do anything about it, his back straightened even more. "I will wear a suit, Mrs. Smoak-Lance," he said, his voice probably harsher than was wise. "I know what's expected." He could have left it at that, but his insecurities kicked in higher gear before he could really register them. "I'll shave, iron my tie. I won't embarrass you or your daughter."

Mrs. Smoak-Lance's eyes rested on him; silently, she watched him until she scooped forward in her chair, closer to him. "Okay, real talk. I'm saying this to Oliver, the guy my daughter's seeing. I am saying this as Donna Lance, a woman married to a wonderful man—a hardworking, honest, grounded man who's confident and self-assured anywhere—except places where hors d'oeuvres are served. So let _that_ woman tell you, Oliver: as soon as you enter the gala with Felicity, people will stare at you. They will judge you and they will disapprove, because that's more fun. You're entering a battlefield. And you go to battle in armor—and the right armor for the fundraiser is an expensive tux, tailor-made, fitted to bring out your broad shoulders. That's why you'll go to the appointment Gerry made. You'll be perfectly on time, do everything the tailor tells you, and let me pay for a tux and a suit. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes."

"Good."

Oliver's heart was beating heavily. He felt caught, chided, and also cared about in the strangest way. And it was a weird combination leaving him uneasy and speechless. He swallowed heavily, longing to flee from this office. "I'll talk to Gerry about the details."

He moved to get up, but Donna Lance stopped him. "Oliver," she said, keeping him in his seat. "As somebody married to a hardworking, honest, good man, I'm glad to find that I passed the appreciation of such qualities on to my daughter." She fixed him with a somewhat softer gaze for a moment. Oliver met her eyes, reduced to looking at the woman opposite him, unable to come up with a reaction to the off-handed compliment that was a surprise in the best way. With a sharp nod, Donna Smoak-Lance ended the connection. Getting up from her seat, she indicated that this conversation was over.

Oliver followed her lead and offered his hand. "Thank you," he said with emphasis, trying to express all the different things he was thanking her for.

The gleam in her eyes told him she understood. She shook his hand. "I look forward to seeing you on Saturday, Mr. Queen." She held on to his hand. "And I personally think that designer stubble suits you quite well." She let go of his hand and smiled. "Have a good day."

* * *

He needed his baby sister—and he wasn't the least bit ashamed about it.

Thea Queen was the best pep-talker Oliver Queen knew. And right now Oliver needed a pep-talk. Oliver needed somebody to pull him out of his own head and away from the panicked scenarios he had retreated to.

The familiar sounds coming from his laptop's speakers told him Skype was trying to create a connection. Luckily, it didn't take long for his sister's face to appear on his screen. A towel piled up on her head hid her brown locks. She wore a fluffy yellow bathrobe and had a make-up tube in hand. Knowing his sister, Oliver realized he had interrupted her pre-clubbing ritual. He glanced at the clock. It was only six-thirty, way too early for Thea to get ready to go out. He raised his eyebrows. "Hot date?"

"No," Thea answered, "frat party. I was told we have to be there early or stay sober."

"Sober partying? God! The horror." Oliver tried to keep his voice light and teasing, but the knot in his stomach kept him from sounding believable.

"Exactly," Thea smirked, doing light and teasing perfectly. "What's with the fancy-fancy?" She gestured toward the camera.

"I'm going out," he answered and added, "With Felicity."

"Yeah, I figured since you've been dating her for weeks." The image of Thea shook as she picked up her laptop. "Where are you going? The opera?"

"Fundraiser. To meet Starling's one percent. I need you to tell me it's going to be fine."

"It's going to be fine." Thea sank down on her bed, laying down on her front, upper body propped up, looking at the screen. "I'm serious. You're going to be fine."

"I don't feel fine." Fumbling with his cufflinks, Oliver tugged at his white dress shirt. He stood in his living room, looking at his laptop on the breakfast bar, shifting his weight. "Mrs. Smoak-Lance said people would judge me, Thea. She said people would disapprove for the fun of it. That's why she paid for this tux, called it armor. And I'm freaking out. I'm just a guy from Vegas in a tux paid for by his boss and Felicity's going to—"

"She going to really appreciate you in that tux," Thea cut in. The teasing mood gone, her serious glance reached him through the internet connection. "Ollie, take a deep breath and sit down."

"I can't. I'll crinkle the suit."

"Wow." Thea huffed. "Freak-out, much? Ollie, since when do you care what other people say about you? You never did and you shouldn't start now. It doesn't matter what these strangers think just because they have money."

"This isn't my world, Thea. I don't belong there."

"Okay, you're lucky you're there and I'm here, because otherwise I'd slap you." She sighed. "If you're so freaked out, why did you agree to go?"

"Because Felicity asked me. Unlike her mother, she made it sound like it wasn't a big deal, like it was lame. She mentioned good food and classical music and said I'm the only one she wants to be her plus one. And I like being her plus one."

"Then be her plus one."

Great. Oliver pressed his lips together and glared at his sister. She wasn't helping him at all by reciting his words back at him.

Thea sent him a look of her own. "I _mean_ ," she clarified, "go there with Felicity, eat good food, listen to classical music, and ignore the rest. It's what you're there for. You're there with Felicity: she's on your side, she thinks you belong there. And apparently so does her mother. After all she paid for your tailored armor—which is looking pretty good. I mean as good as you can look, anyway."

The last sentence was typical of his sister; it was also meant as a teasing mood lifter. It worked. That and everything Thea said before made him inhale deeply, the truth of her words ringing in his ears. He nodded, affirmed. And he managed to bring a smirk to his face, some of his nerves dissolving, his spirit feeling a bit lighter. He opened his black tux jacket, presenting what was underneath to the laptop camera and his sister. "I'm wearing suspenders, because you can't wear a belt with a tux."

"I think you're wearing them wrong. The old fart from across the street always wears suspenders and his pants are way up higher than yours." Thea winked.

Amused, Oliver shook his head. He was about to show her the new shoes he bought for the occasion when his doorbell sounded. He flinched and his eyes snapped to the door. His nerves flared instantly—but now it was too late to back out. Standing Felicity up was unthinkable. He took a steadying breath. "Time to go," he told his sister and added a heartfelt, "Thank you."

"Anytime, Ollie." She gave him a fond smile. "You're gonna be fine. Have fun. I want details tomorrow."

He promised to call and tell her everything she wanted to know. After a hurried goodbye, Oliver raced to the speaker, letting Felicity's driver know he'd be right down.

The black Bentley parked in front of his building and made Oliver's nerves flare up again. This wasn't anything like the casual dates he'd shared with Felicity; being stared at in a movie theatre had been bad enough. He tightened his hands into fist as he headed toward the car, the driver in a blue uniform moving to open the door for him.

Meeting Felicity's eyes through the opening door, seeing the gleam visible there match her beautiful smile, chased all negative thoughts away.

"Hey," she greeted, scooting over.

"Hey," he answered and slid into the backseat next to her. The driver closed the door. Oliver leaned in and pecked Felicity's cheek, not daring to kiss her lips, colored a brilliant red, in fear of ruining her makeup. "You look beautiful," he said softly and meant it wholeheartedly. Her blonde hair flowed around her face in big waves, the black dress she wore had a high collar and long sleeves, but the flared skirt was short, showing off her perfect legs, contrasting her ridiculously high red heels.

"Thank you," she said, just as the driver got behind the steering wheel. "You look very handsome yourself." She reached for his bowtie. "Like a blonde James Bond." Her eyes sparkled as they met his. "I hear that's a thing now."

A breath full of amusement escaped him, but before he could say something, Felicity reached for his hand and gave a slight squeeze. "Are you okay?"

"I'm nervous." The answer was past his lips before he could really contemplate it—and only as he said it did he realize that most if the nervous energy making his stomach turn had vanished the moment he had seen her.

Felicity tightened her hand around his. "I promise you—five minutes with Starling City's elite and all you will be is bored." She sent him a look that was a silent promise. "Don't worry. We got this."

He nodded, remembering his sister's words and grasping how true they were: all that mattered was Felicity being by his side. Who cared who else was there?

* * *

There was a string quartet. There always was a string quartet. Playing Haydn. Of course, they were playing Haydn, the inventor of the string quartet. Next up would be Beethoven. Mozart, too. Probably some Schubert. Oh, and there was the polished marble giving the whole gathering an even colder atmosphere and a hollow sound. There were the waiters making rounds with champagne and hors d'oeuvres, the high tables covered with white tablecloths, the over-done flower-arrangements and the well-dressed, bejeweled people clustering, waiting for the signal to flood the adjoining room and see how close they were seated to the hosts for dinner.

It was strangely comforting that the rules of such social gatherings hadn't changed in the previous five years.

They were rules Felicity knew by heart. But Oliver didn't, Felicity reminded herself. The people waiting for them on the marble floor three steps below didn't faze her, didn't matter to her. They couldn't blind her with expensive smiles and jewelry. Felicity had grown up among them, knew them and their tricks, knew everything that money couldn't buy for them. Making an appearance like this, making the rounds was a chore forced upon her since she was a young girl.

But this was Oliver's first time. (God, she had to make sure she didn't phrase it like that out loud.) He had never been to such an event, and she knew that tonight equaled pushing him into the deep end. But she would make sure he'd keep his head above the water. _Far_ above it. She'd guide him through this, turn this into an at least a decent experience for him.

Felicity's hand rested in the crook of Oliver's elbow, closing in a comforting gesture, as they walked down the stairs leading to the ballroom. The buzz of voices mixing with the music didn't falter, but the tone changed, turning a bit more hushed, a bit more heated, while eyes followed them through the room. She brought her other hand to Oliver's arm, too, adding a gentle squeeze.

They made their way over the polished floor across the room. She was glad Oliver was here with her, she wanted him by her side—while she wished he didn't have to be. She could feel his uneasiness and discomfort. She couldn't fault him for either: nothing about this was easy or comfortable. But it was a public outing, it was a statement—one she wanted to make and maybe people would get the message.

She leaned in to him, making him bow his head to her slightly. "Anybody who gives you a hard time will have to answer to me."

The corners of his mouth ticked upward, but he was too tense to actually smile. "Will you be with or without your hood?" he whispered back.

"Your choice." She winked.

Together they took the last steps to Donna and Quentin Lance. The spouses stood nearly in the center of the room. The Chief of Starling City's fire department (the uniform was unmistakable) and his wife excused themselves with polite pleasantries.

"Mom," Felicity let go of Oliver's arm to greet her mother with a hug.

"Felicity," Donna Smoak-Lance smiled and Felicity could tell how happy her mother was to see her from how tightly she wrapped her arms around her. "You're on time," Donna said, surprised. Yes, that was new. Before the island Fe Smoak had turned being fashionably late into an art form.

Letting go of her daughter, Donna sent Oliver a small smile. "Mr. Queen, always good to see you."

Oliver was all stiff tension, but he was trying. He shook the CEO's hand. "Please," he said, following a suggestion Felicity had made in the car, "call me, Oliver."

The smile on Donna's face turned brighter. She nodded and reached for her husband's shoulder. "My husband Quentin Lance. The mastermind behind this fundraiser."

The detective snorted. "No, you can't blame all this on me. I suggested a donation, you turned it into this hoo-ha." He grabbed Oliver's hand in a firm grip and said, his voice equally firm. "Quentin Lance. I'm a police detective," his eyes jerked to Felicity, "so you better not do anything stupid."

"Yes, sir." The words practically flew from Oliver's lips.

Donna gave her husband a look that was part annoyance and part amusement. "I see the evening's off to a great start," she said, teasingly. Something behind Felicity caught Donna's attention. Her face fell visible and she added in a hushed tone, "And it's about to take turn for the worse. Starling's biggest gossip is on approach."

"Oh," Quentin said a bit louder than usual. "There's the Police Commissioner. I probably should—" His sentence not even finished, he hurried away from the group.

"Traitor," Donna hissed after her husband, but already had a fake smile in place to greet the small woman appearing next to Oliver. "Doris, how good to see you." The women kissed the air left and right to each other's faces. The woman was in her early fifties, impeccably styled in classic Chanel, accessorizing with big chunky earrings dangling past her neatly cut bob. Donna gestured to her. "Felicity, you remember Doris van Sutton, don't you? Her husband's the director of Starling City Bank—and she's the life of every party."

Doris giggled, delighted.

Felicity faked remembrance. "Of course, Mrs. van Sutton."

"Dear," Doris said, her voice a bit theatric, "it's so good to see you again. The news of your return left us overjoyed. My son Gregory's especially looking forward to seeing you, but sadly he's in South America on a business trip."

Unlike his mother, Felicity remembered Gregory van Sutton perfectly—the pompous ass. "Oh, I haven't seen Greg since our trip to Aspen." Where he puked all over the Smoak family's snowmobile—after being neither invited nor welcome in the first place.

"He works too hard and doesn't have time for spontaneous short trips anymore. He really grew up. We're so proud. Sadly, that leaves little time to find a suitable wife," Doris said and instantly zoned in on Oliver. "I'm sorry," she stated, clearly not sorry at all, "I didn't catch your name."

"Oh, of course," Donna cut in, "Doris, this is Oliver Queen, Felicity's boyfriend."

Involuntarily, Felicity stiffened and felt Oliver grow equally rigid next to her. A hot sensation rushed through Felicity. 'Boyfriend.' The word seemed to hang in the air between them, demanding attention, explanation, clarification. Felicity felt words gather at the tip of her tongue to add to her mother's so natural use of the label they hadn't officially added yet. But at the same time, Felicity didn't know what to say, how to correct her mother. Because: what other label made sense? How else could she name what Oliver was to her? Scrambling for words, Felicity realized that her mother had summed up their relationship status perfectly. The hot sensation rushing through her left a tingle behind, a certain happy excitement that made it impossible for Felicity to deny it to herself: she enjoyed the idea of Oliver being her boyfriend. She liked the idea of introducing him like that, of people knowing they weren't just here together, but that they were _together_ —here and everywhere else.

The moment of silence following Donna's statement lasted a second too long and was about to turn awkward when the rigidness fell off Oliver. He tipped his head to the brunette studying him calculatingly. "Mrs. van Sutton, it's a pleasure to meet you."

Doris raised a calculating eyebrow. "Are you related to the Coast City Queens?"

"No," Oliver answered. "Not to my knowledge." He sounded very collected, entirely unfazed by the horrible woman visibly scrutinizing him, wondering how he could be a better catch than her son. Pride filled Felicity and she slipped her hand in Oliver's in a silent connection.

"Good for you," Doris stated. "James Queen's a drunk. Wastes his money on promiscuous women and overpriced booze." She sent Donna a glance. "You don't want those genes in your family." Her eyes snapped back to Oliver. "What's your father's first name?"

"Robert, ma'am."

"Never heard of him. Are you from the East Coast?"

"No."

"Oliver's family is from Vegas," Felicity clarified, in hopes to shut this woman up.

Of course, it didn't. Instead, it caused Doris to frown. "Las Vegas?" Felicity could practically see images of the sunset strip, gambling, and whatever else she deemed inappropriate about that city play in front of her inner eyes. The brunette fixed Oliver with a hard glare, asking with a voice full of suspicion, "What does your father do?"

"Last time I saw him he was leaving to buy cigarettes." Oliver met Doris' eyes. "What he's been up to since then… I can't tell you."

Doris mouth opened without any words escaping.

Felicity couldn't help but thoroughly enjoy the sight, the shock on the woman's face whose questions and statements had been much more outrageous than anything Oliver had said. She tightened her hold on Oliver's hand.

Donna visibly bit back a smile, too. But her voice was calm and apologetic, "Doris, I have to steal them for a moment. The Castles just arrived and I want Felicity and Oliver to meet Celina."

The surprise on the brunette's face switched from shock to disbelief. "You're supporting _her_?"

"We are," Donna confirmed. "Quentin and I believe she'll be a great mayor." Stopping Doris before she could say anything else, she reached for Felicity's arm and stepped back. "We'll talk later."

Felicity was glad to leave that woman and that conversation behind. Both came with something she definitely hadn't missed during her time away: the judgment poorly masked by basic politeness, the calculation underneath practiced phrases, the narrow-mindedness justified as tradition. Doris van Sutton was the kind of person to whore her son out to further her status and get access to the Smoak family's money. Felicity felt a strange satisfaction that that woman now knew that Oliver Queen, son of the Vegas Queens with an absentee father, was closer to the Smoak family's connections and money than her well-bred, overworking son. Not that Felicity believed Oliver cared about her family's status, but Doris cared and that made all of this really sweet.

Oliver's hand closing around her own brought Felicity out of her silent musing. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I said I wouldn't embarrass you. But that was inappropriate."

"Are you crazy?" Felicity looked up at him, stunned. "That was perfect."

"It was," Donna agreed and Felicity felt Oliver's grip relax around her hand. Donna looked at Oliver. "If you can handle that woman, the rest of the night will be a piece of cake."

* * *

The metaphorical cake wasn't the tastiest one, but it wasn't the worst either. Sitting at one of the circular tables in the dinner room, the ceiling dotted with the chandeliers high above her, the white tablecloth freckled with red wine, Felicity couldn't help but think that the last four hours had gone rather well. Oliver sat next to her, finally more relaxed, taking a sip of the Scotch he had ordered after Felicity had told him he deserved a treat to celebrate surviving his first official Starling City function. She placed her hand on his thigh, bringing his attention away from the string quartet that had switched rooms after dinner. She smiled at him. "So. You're my boyfriend."

"It appears that I am."

"Do we need to…" Felicity waved her hand through the air, "talk about that?"

"That depends."

"On what?"

"If you're my girlfriend, too."

"I'd like to think that I am."

"Good, then there's nothing left to talk about."

A soft laugh escaped Felicity. "Good." She tightened her hand on Oliver's leg and brought her face closer to his.

To Felicity's surprise, Oliver leaned away. She was even more surprised to find insecurity in his eyes. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Is public kissing okay? I mean this is a very fancy event an—"

"Oliver, it's okay to kiss your girlfriend at this fancy party," she told him. Gently, softly, she touched her lips to his, kissing him tenderly. Parting, a smile danced on her lips. "See," she said teasingly, bringing her thumb up to brush some traces of red from his lips, "perfectly appropriate for all audiences."

He inhaled deeply, nodding his understanding and agreement. They shared a comfortable quiet moment. Oliver ended it by motioning to the musicians. "You said there'd be a string quartet."

"There always is."

"I don't know anything about classical music, but I think this sounds nice."

"That's Beethoven."

Surprised, his eyes snapped back to her.

She shrugged and answered his unasked question. "My dad forced me to play the violin. A good musical education is suitable for girls of my social standing."

Oliver stared at her, then he tilted his head. "Guess you've always had a thing for bows and strings."

A chuckle escaped her. "Guess I have."

She didn't get to say anything else, cut off by Sara letting herself drop onto the seat next to her. "Thank God," Sara sighed, "we have the official okay to leave. I never minded dad marrying your mom—until tonight. This had been the longest four hours of my life—and that includes that stake-out in Siberian winter without auxiliary heating."

"You came an hour late," Felicity reminded her, "and you hid in the ladies room for at least forty-five minutes."

"I couldn't stand people staring at me for one more second." The sentence simply fell from Sara's lips, and she looked unhappy that she'd let it escape.

Felicity had just turned to her friend, digging her brain for something comforting to say (a quip about people always staring at the returned un-dead didn't seem to fit that category) when Sara dismissed everything she knew her friend wanted to say with a wave of her hand. Another sigh followed. "Plus, it was enough time for my dad to lecture me about family quality time. He scheduled a family dinner tomorrow night and made it very clear that you and I, but mostly I, have to be there."

Suddenly Felicity felt a pang of guilt for neglecting her best friend. She had been so focused on Oliver and making sure he was comfortable that he forgot about Sara and this being her first official outing since returning, too. Sara had accompanied Felicity to a few functions like this, enjoying the opportunity to get dressed up and drunk, using it as pre-gaming before switching venues to start the serious partying. None of that had applied tonight—and Felicity should have noticed sooner. "I'll make sure to be there, too," Felicity promised. She caught Sara's eyes, emphasizing, "I _will_ be there."

Thankful, Sara nodded, but their connection only lasted a heartbeat. Avoiding eye contact, Sara put her attention on her black pants. (They were high-wasted with wide, straight legs, combined with the black high heels and the white blouse opened maybe one button too many. Sara looked amazing—Felicity had made sure to tell her _that_ , at least. that) "God, this evening was such a waste."

"Not entirely," Felicity said and gave Oliver a smile. "I think this can count as a good first time." A jerk went through her. She groaned at her own wording. She had been so good until now.

Sara smirked. "Good to know at least you two had a good time."

"I meant it was a good first official outing for Oliver."

He huffed in amusement. "Yes, guess it could have gone worse."


	14. Start talking!

Your comments helped me through a very busy week and I'm lacking adequate words to tell you how much it means to me. Just: Thank you.

And since I'm busy thanking people: **Albi** worked her way through this chapter and tightened it where I couldn't. Thanks for all your hard work and critical eye.

Okay, I hope you enjoy this chapter and don't fall asleep in the middle. Love, Jules

* * *

 **Start talking!**

A murder, a board meeting, and a Triad drug deal delayed the family dinner three nights in a row. The first reason was police work, the second Donna Smoak-Lance's every day job, the third a secret.

Officially, Oliver Queen had asked Felicity Smoak out to dinner, and Donna had even encouraged her to go with him, because, apparently, you didn't stand up a man offering to cook for you. (Felicity blamed _that_ part of the made-up excuse on Sara. She had a tendency to spin very elaborate stories.) In reality, Oliver had sat in the Factory leading a woman in green leather and a woman dressed all black through the streets of Valley Lamb. Wearing big (identity concealing) helmets, Felicity and Sara had sped on their motorbikes, driving their target—the truck belonging to the Triad—into the previously chosen dead-end street. Knocking the two men in the front out had been simple, evading the bullets aimlessly fired into the night by the two men in the back a bit more challenging. But in the end, the two police officers alerted by a 911 call found four bound men next to crates with waving cat statues—one of them broken to reveal its cocaine-filling.

That had been a rather successful Tuesday evening.

The look on Sara's face told Felicity clearly that her friend would rather spend her Wednesday getting shot at than entering Smoak Mansion to finally have the delayed Sunday family dinner.

Heavy rain splattered against the huge windows leading to the gardens. Big drops met the surface and were pushed in heavy streaks by the strong wind audibly brushing around the house. The rustling was only drowned out by thunder periodically roaring. The storm outside seemed to be gaining intensity and made this feel like a good evening to take a break. It even added a feeling of coziness to the scene greeting Felicity and Sara in the kitchen.

Donna Smoak-Lance stood by the oven, stirring a pot and wearing full CEO-gear (yellow blouse, grey pencil skirt, black stilettos, dangly golden earrings) plus an apron reading _I bring home the bacon and I cook it, too_. Her hair was pulled back in a low, messy bun and that alone made her mother look unbelievably casual to Felicity. Quentin Lance set the table, adding wine glasses, and welcomed the two blonde women with a smile. "Right on time," he said, sounding pleased. He walked to Sara and greeted her with a long kiss on the forehead. Felicity saw her friend lean in to the touch and, feeling the need to give them a moment, headed over to her mother.

Felicity knew her mother liked cooking. She always had. For a long time Donna Smoak had cooked lunch every Sunday, three courses every week, trying new recipes, enjoying the time with her husband and her daughter, who had both gushed over each triumphant new dish. This tradition had been broken years before Felicity had been lost at sea—partly because Felicity was rarely up for lunch on Sundays, and partly because things between Donna and Edward Smoak had turned sour. Felicity knew that her parents' marriage hadn't been good for almost two years before she and her father had boarded the family yacht. Two days before that, her parents had informed their daughter that they planned on filing for divorce after the trip. It hadn't been a shock exactly. Her father had been living in one of the guest rooms for nearly a year by then.

Edward Smoak drowned in the North China Sea a week later while his daughter held on. Clinging to (and half-resting on) a piece of the yacht broken apart by the forces of nature, Felicity had drifted for days, mourning her dad and feeling somewhat relieved her mom knew that, even though she was taking this trip with her father, Felicity wasn't siding with him. Her last words to her mother had been "I love you."

For many years that had been a very consoling thought to Felicity: her mom didn't doubt her daughter's love, the two women had had a good ending.

Seeing her mother in the kitchen brought back many positive memories, but also clear understanding: Donna and Quentin were striving for casual family bonding. Maids, silver cutlery, the delicate crystal, and that ugly china passed on from Smoak to Smoak for generations were nowhere to be seen. (But there was a vase filled with the big bloomed roses Donna Smoak-Lance loved so much. To Felicity it felt like those belonged on the kitchen counter; Quentin made sure to bring a new one at least once a week.)

"Smells wonderful," Felicity complimented and reached for the lid of a pot to have a look. "What are we having?"

"Roast beef, caramelized onions, peas, and…" Donna gestured to the pot Felicity was gazing into with the spatula in hand, "potatoes." She smiled at her daughter. "I had a conference call with London yesterday and it made me want to spread some British-ness."

Seeing the happy ease on her mother's face, feeling the joy coming from her and knowing what this dinner meant to her, Felicity couldn't help but peck Donna's cheek. Standing by the oven and looking back down at potatoes, the ordinariness of the moment meant a lot to Felicity, too. It felt like finding a missing piece of herself that she'd believed to be lost forever. She met her mother's gaze. "Thanks."

It was the smallest, simplest gesture. Still, Donna's eyes turned moist within a heartbeat, leaving Felicity awkward immediately.

"It really smells good, Donna," Sara complimented from the other side of the kitchen island, bringing the attention of both Smoak women to her. Quentin's arm was around Sara's shoulders, but she still looked unsure and uneasy.

Donna's emotional state swung again and a smile took over her face. It turned teasing as she added a playfully raised eyebrow. "Wait till you taste it! Okay, let's do this." She gestured toward a pot. "Felicity, drain the potatoes. Sara, bowls are in the cupboard over there. Give me two…. No, three. Quentin, you're in charge of the uncorking the wine."

"Yes, ma'am," Quentin confirmed. "Red or white?"

"The internet says roast beef is best served with red," Donna said.

Felicity froze, the potato pot in both hands. "You googled that all by yourself? Oliver'd be so proud."

"Hey," her mother fake chided. "No matter what your boyfriend tells you, I am not _that_ hopeless when it comes to computers. I can google all by myself." She turned toward her husband, winking at him. "Luckily, I mostly don't have to… google myself."

Sara nearly dropped the bowl she'd been fishing from the top shelf.

Felicity groaned and laconically looked at her mother. "You know, when I say stuff like that it's involuntary."

"I don't know if that's better, sweetie."

"Donna," Quentin sent his wife a look full of seriousness and warning, "this is a family dinner. We behave accordingly."

Donna Smoak-Lance huffed. "Way to suck the fun out of being around family." She dumped the spatula into the sink. " _Fine_. I'll be motherly." She waved at the girls. "Get the potatoes and the peas in the bowls and out of the way. I need to take care of the… meat." She looked at her husband and raised her hands in playful surrender. "Not a euphemism. Serious kitchen talk."

Quentin held his wife's stare, this time failing to hide the hints of amusement sparking in his eyes. Felicity sensed some sort of silent conversation going on and turned away to deal with the potatoes when she saw Sara bite back a smirk.

That was a very rare sight.

Since her return to Starling City, Sara hadn't smiled much. Or smirked. Or grinned. Finding traces of the girl she had struggled through algebra with in the now battle-hardened woman made Felicity realize her mother's genius. Because, obviously, reducing tension had been Donna Smoak-Lance's mission—and it had worked. Entering the kitchen, Sara had been tied in knots. Now she was much more at ease. Her eyes had brightened, her muscles relaxed, her jaw had unclenched. That was the best way to start a family dinner.

It took five more minutes to start the actual eating. The Smoak-Lances gathered around the kitchen table, the parents on one side, the girls on the other, loaded plates and glasses in front of them.

Donna raised her big bellied glass, "To us."

The others followed suit, toasting. Felicity took the smallest sip. Feeling her mother's interested glance on her, she set the glass down. "I might be drunk after two sips. I've been very sober in the last few years."

After years filled with partying (which had been a synonym for drinking whatever, smoking cigarettes and pot, as well as snorting coke—sometimes all in one night), her life at taken a turn to sobriety—first by circumstance, later by choice. Now being drugged meant _getting_ drugged against her will. It meant losing control in a way Felicity wasn't comfortable with anymore. Even in Hong Kong, where drugs in various forms had been available to her, she had remained abstinent because, being a Triad member, she had needed her wits. Everything else was careless and potentially lethal.

It was that thought that made Felicity replay the last sentence in her head and with repetition came the realization that her statement hadn't been as conversationally light as she had intended. It hinted at too many negative things and brought along the possibility of destroying the carefully crafted casual atmosphere. The seconds of silence following were proof enough.

Felicity felt the need to fill the void in conversation. "But I don't think that matters. It's not like you haven't seen me drunk before." After a moment, Felicity again realized that she hadn't exactly improved the situation.

"That's true," Sara confirmed, finding her voice. "There was the fine moment with you getting lost when we crashed at my place. You ended up sleeping in the tub."

Felicity stared at her friend, blankly, wondering how that was supposed to be helping her or the awkward situation. "You got lost at my place, too."

"Yeah," Sara said. "I did. But your place is a mansion with, like, one million rooms. Dad and I lived in a two-bedroom apartment."

"Yes," Felicity huffed, "thank you for stressing _that._ "

"I think one glass with dinner won't end with you sleeping in the tub," Donna cut in and reached for her cutlery. "Please, dig in. Bon appetite."

"Bon appetite," the others echoed and Felicity met Sara's eyes, sending her a silent thank you for the—as she now realized—perfect distraction.

The two younger women busied themselves with chewing, complimenting the meal after a few bites, bringing a happy smile to Donna's face. Her husband sent her a fond glance that told Felicity a lot about how much Quentin cared for her mother.

Quiet peacefulness settled over the table while everybody ate. Donna was the one to end it, addressing Felicity. "I met Janice Bowen today, Carter's mother."

"Carter Bowen," Felicity barely kept from rolling her eyes. "Did he cure cancer yet?"

A snort escaped her mother. "No, but he managed to cheat on the wrong girl. She sent all the information on his Cayman accounts to the tax office. His practice was raided and everything. Janice insists it's all one big misunderstanding."

"Of course, she does," Quentin shook his head before stuffing a big chunk of roast beef into his mouth.

"We hate the Bowens," Donna explained. "They always call Quentin 'that social climber cop.' They think we don't know." Donna paused deliberately. Her eyes and voice were steel when she continued. "But we _know_."

"Our revenge was not inviting them to the Fundraiser," Quentin said, sarcasm dripping from every word. "Because such foggledy-foo is part of my life now." He cut his meat with more force than necessary. "As if dealing with the commissioner and his godforsaken Arrow taskforce wasn't enough." A screeching filled the room as his knife scraped over the porcelain of his plate.

"I thought you were investigating a murder." Sara said. "Wasn't that where you were Sunday? Did the Arrow kill somebody?"

"No. I was on call Sunday." He was upset. It showed in the way his lips curled and how his words blurred together a little as he talked more quickly. "And that's what I should be doing. Going after a guy who stabbed an old woman twenty- _five_ times. I'm a homicide-detective. That's my job. Not fronting the commissioner's publicity project because he thinks its prestige will butter up my wife."

Felicity filled her mouth with a piece of potato and focused on chewing. She didn't want to talk to her mother's husband about the taskforce. She didn't want to think about the fact that the man her mother shared a bed with only a few rooms down the hall was supposed to stop her. Maybe she should try to get some information, some insight on the state of the Arrow investigations, but she couldn't bring herself to ask. It felt safer not to address it at all.

Donna sighed, heavily. "I'd offer to talk to the commissioner, but I know you don't want that."

"Damn right," Her husband growled. "I don't want that."

Another moment of silence followed, only disturbed by the sounds of the storm outside. Surprisingly, Quentin was the one to end it. "Now that we discussed my wonderful day. What did you do today?"

His eyes settled on his daughter. Inquiringly, unwaveringly, he watched her chew until all that was left for Sara to do was swallow. "Nothing special."

"Then tell me about the not special things you did."

"I went to the gym."

"You never enjoyed working out much when you were younger."

"I learned the value of being in shape."

"I can imagine," Quentin Lance said and set his fork down. "Tell me about it."

" _Quentin_ ," Donna warned quietly.

The warning seemed to bounce off him, his eyes glued to his daughter. He seemed prepared to take whatever chiding, discomfort, or awkwardness a possible future held to finally get some answers. Felicity noticed Sara shifting in the seat next to her, felt the other woman's mask of calm slip with each passing second, and she knew that she had to help her best friend. But she didn't know how, didn't know what to say that would work as a distraction—without turning unwanted attention to her and potentially making this worse.

Again, it was Donna Smoak-Lance who tried to keep the peace. "She clearly doesn't want to talk about it, and we should respect that."

"No," came the instant objection. "For five years I was convinced that my daughter was dead." His eyes snapped to Felicity. "That our daughters were dead. I want to know what happened." He softened the barest bit. "There's something eating you up from the inside, Sara. I can see it—and if you just shared some of it that might make things easier. I want to help."

"I appreciate that," Sara answered, flatly. "But there's nothing to tell."

"See!" Quentin's hand curled into a fist; he stopped himself from slamming it to the table in the last moment. "That's a lie. I know you, Sara. And I know you're lying to me." He forced himself to take a deep breath.

Felicity's heart was hammering in her chest. The longing to jump to her friend's rescue was overwhelming but the situation left her helpless, unequipped to deal with the tension filling up the room.

"Airplane."

The word was past Felicity's lips before she really registered it. It escaped her in a half-shout, gaining everybody's attention. Six eyes settled on her. She evaded them by staring through the space between her mother and her mother's husband. Her grip tightened around her cutlery and she forced herself to continue talking, "On the island there was wreckage from an airplane. I mostly stayed there, because it offered basic shelter. That was lucky, really," she dared to glance at her mother. "Because you know I was never very crafty."

Nobody said anything for a long second. Finally, Donna swallowed heavily and found the strength to move her tongue, her voice was coated. "That's true. Just remember those mugs you made for mother's day. They always leaked."

Felicity dared to meet her mother's eyes then, finding an emotional storm in them. Compassion, pain, horror, love turned them darker despite the tears pooling in them. A heavy silence settled over the gathered Smoak-Lances, thickening the air.

The tension vanished with an explosion of noise.

The floor-length windows burst in, shattered as four armed commandos crashed through them and fanned out in the room. Rain and wind ripped at the curtains, making them flap, swaying the lamp above the dining table—the dining table Sara now jumped over, causing wine to spill and the bowl with the peas to crash to the floor, green beads rolling over the white tiles. Trained reflexes brought Felicity to her feet (in high heels, the ultimate proof that she hadn't expected anything like this), trampling a few peas as she rose. The chair fell to the floor as she rushed around the table and toward the people dressed in all black, heavily armed.

Her mother's yelp and Quentin's curse hit Felicity's ears, but neither really registered within her. It was a blur of instinct, and it drove Felicity between her mother and the aimed gun in the hands of a man hiding his face underneath a ski mask. Next to her stood Sara, shielding her father the same way from another man with another gun.

"What the—" Quentin started and Felicity felt more than saw him reach for the holster that wasn't there, because he hadn't come armed to a casual family dinner.

Felicity fixed the man aiming at her while mapping the room and the intruder's positions, evaluating the situation: four people—three male, one female—strategically positioned throughout the dining area of the kitchen, their backs to the crashed window and the crashed double door leading to the garden. They used the layout to their advantage, spreading through the empty space of the big room, while the Smoak-Lances were crowded together close the dinner table, the kitchen counter to their left. All opponents were armed with semiautomatic handguns—Glocks to be precise. All wore the same black combat gear without any identifying symbols and covered the faces with ski masks.

"What?!" Sara said, addressing the man closest to her. "No Suicide Squad? I'm disappointed."

"Don't flatter yourself, Lance," the woman standing farthest away from Felicity snarled.

"You took something that isn't yours," the man aiming at Felicity said. "Give it back, and nobody gets hurt."

"I can't do that," Sara sounded deadly calm. "It's my insurance. To make sure Waller accepts that I'm out."

"Waller wants it back," the man snapped. "Don't tempt us—or your friend with the butter-knife's the first to go."

Felicity's grip tightened. The knife she had used to cut the roast beef was still in her hand; she had learned to never let go of pointy objects in moments of danger. She had also learned to never underestimate an opponent—a lesson she was very much looking forward to teaching the dude opposite her.

"Enough!" Quentin's voice sounded from behind Felicity. It was like a go signal to her, because the detective getting into cop-mode could only make the situation worse, could only put her mother into more danger. It was time to leave an impression, improve the situation by balancing out the scales.

In one fluent movement, Felicity threw the knife across the room. It was still slicing through the air (to ultimately sink into the upper arm of the female intruder, cutting the tendon, making her lose her grip on her gun) when Felicity jammed her hand against the wrist of the man closest to her, loosening his grip on his gun. In one fluent motion, she reached for his arm, gripped it tightly and jumped around him, twisting and breaking it at the same time she brought the man to his knees. Her knee connected with the back of his head, knocking him out. In the next second she stood over his limp body on the floor, aiming the gun at the man aiming at Sara in time for the woman's scream to fill the room. It mixed with a knocking sound of a Glock hitting the floor.

Two audible gasps filled the momentary silence following. Felicity felt the eyes of her mother and her mother's husband on her. She felt the stunned shock but couldn't react to it. Her sole attention was on the two men left in the room, and a third whose silhouette she had seen outside the window when lightning had struck one second ago.

"Tell Waller I want nothing but peace and quiet," Sara's voice was measured but self-assured. "We're good, if you leave now."

"Oh," the man directly in front of Sara said, "we're far from good."

Two shots were fired simultaneously. Felicity shifted her aim in an instant, taking out the second man closer to the window just when the guy threatening Sara shot at her. But Sara had anticipated it. She was already moving, reaching for him and redirecting the shot toward the ceiling. Plaster rained down on her as she took out her opponent with only a few skilled moves. Another bang followed as Sara shot the female who had grabbed the gun in her other hand to aim at Felicity.

Felicity registered that only out of the corner of her eyes as she turned to Quentin, stepping toward him and handing him the gun. "Protect her." It was a clear order and Quentin reached for the firearm without hesitation, pushing a completely stunned Donna behind himself.

A loud clacking sounded. Felicity whipped around to see the man she had noticed before racing into the room. Whatever he had thrown at Sara's hand, he had managed to disarm her. The Glock slid over the kitchen floor and banged against the wall. The man, tall and bulky, jumped at Sara with his arms raised, a stick in his hands. He thrust it at Sara, but she ducked and twirled. The stick hit the ground with a loud crack.

More noise followed, this time a loud shattering mixing with a dull bang. It came from where Donna and Quentin were, but Felicity ignored it. She was moving already, taking off her shoes, eyes on Sara. Her friend was evading blows of the stick, once, twice, a third time, before it connected with her side, throwing her off balance, making her to stumble and crash to the floor.

Before the big guy could go after her, Felicity was stabbing one stiletto heel into his thigh (that was the first time she had used _that_ particular pointy object). She had expected her opponent's leg to give in, but he stood tall, screaming more in anger than in pain, and surprised Felicity with a perfect blow that sent her crashing into the wall. She found herself on the floor, surrounded by fallen family photos. Angrily Felicity brushed her tousled hair out of her face (that's why she always tied it back, long hair was nothing but a hassle during fights) and pushed herself up, eyes on the fight.

A staccato of clacking filled the room as the battle stick connected with the rod Sara was wielding—the curtain rail, Felicity realized. Sara and her opponent moved quickly and efficiently. Felicity's eyes scanned the room, looking for a suitable weapon to enter the fight. The Glock next to her on the floor wouldn't do her any good, the chances of hitting Sara were too high. A realization Quentin had come to, too. In her peripheral vision Felicity saw him behind the tipped over dinner table, trying to aim but not daring to press the trigger.

Felicity reached for one of the wooden chairs. Her mother loved them—despite the fact that they had belonged to her mother-in-law. Edith Smoak had more than earned the title monster-in-law as well as grandmonster. She had been a petty, spiteful woman. But she had a taste in furniture that Donna Smoak shared. Holding on to two legs, Felicity crashed the family heirloom to the floor, leaving her with two wooden sticks in her hands. Her feet and legs bare (wearing a colorful pretty dress had never felt more wrong. She owned pants now, damn it), she recrossed the room, her eyes on Sara.

Ducking, Sara evaded the jabbed stick to bring the curtain rod up and against her opponent's chest, sending him stumbling back. Using the opportunity, she jumped up, brought the curtain rod far back, gathered force, and brought her improvised weapon down to the man's head. The following crac resounded through the room.

Not hesitating, Sara turned to the still conscious man lying on the floor, bleeding from the gunshot wounds in his leg and his shoulder that Felicity was responsible for. Aggressively, Sara pulled him up, his back to her chest, pressing the rod against his throat. Her breathing was heavy and the battle adrenaline was audible in her voice, "Tell the two guys I know are waiting outside to come in."  
i  
"Sara," Quentin called, getting up behind the improvised barricade. There was a clear warning in his voice.

Felicity stood next to the man whose skull Sara had cracked in battle, glaring at the woman laying on the floor, who was also conscious.

Two more men soaked to the bone from the pouring rain appeared in the glassless windows. Sara added more pressure to the man's throat. "Take your men to Waller. Tell her to forget I exist—and I will do the same." Her voice was ice cold, threatening, and calculating. "Do you understand?"

Wordlessly, they nodded. Once more Sara tightened her grip on the man at her mercy before letting go and stepping back. The masked men moved efficiently as the guy Felicity had knocked out first regained consciousness, visibly groggy and disorientated.

One minute later the seven masked intruders were gone, leaving behind a trashed kitchen, a floor slippery from rain, and absolutely no traces of a casual dinner.

Donna Smoak-Lance stood on wobbly legs behind her tipped over dining table, looking around the room with huge eyes. "What the fuck just happened?!"

"OKAY!" Quentin Lance marched toward his daughter, sending Felicity a dark glance filled with fury. "Sara! Who were those people? And why did they want you?!"

"Dad, I—"

"Don't _Dad_ me!" he snapped. "You'll tell me what's going on right NOW!"

"Shouldn't we…" Felicity said carefully, "check on our security? I mean, they got on the grounds somehow."

Quentin Lance's eyes snapped from one woman to the other, studying them in the midst of chaos, their blonde hair billowing around them with the wind shooting into the room. Aggravation leaked from him, his hands clenching around the gun Felicity had given him. His eyes wandered to his wife. A silent communication followed.

Donna nodded. "I'll call the police. We were attacked in our home."

With a jolt, movement came back to Quentin. "Do that. I'll check on our guards." He marched out of the room.

"Mom—" Felicity started, but fell quiet when her mother practically pinned her down with a stare.

"You two stay here. Don't you dare disappear!" Donna's voice was shaken but firm. "First, Quentin and I will deal with this situation, then we'll deal with the two of you!"

Three hours later, the Smoak-Lances had, indeed, dealt with the situation. Felicity was impressed how seamlessly her mother and her mother's husband worked together, how they complimented each other. Quentin took care of his colleagues—lying to them. Felicity felt the relief radiating off Sara when she heard her father tell Captain Banks, who'd had come personally, about the guys crashing into their house, threatening his family, trashing their home and hurting his "helpless girls" (Felicity and Sara didn't have to look at each other to know they both resented that description. But they could hardly protest it) before disappearing with the contents of the safe, including money and jewelry.

Not once did he look at Felicity or Sara while SCPD took their statements, mapped the scene, bagged evidence (like a gun Detective Quentin Lance had ripped out of the hands of an attacker while directing his shot into ceiling), and measured the boot prints on the wet ground outside.

Meanwhile Donna Smoak-Lance arranged for the windows to be covered and dealt with the housing staff. They had all been in the eastern wing of Smoak Mansion because their boss had wanted privacy for the first Smoak-Lance family dinner. Donna took charge and control of the situation—avoiding even looking in the general direction of her daughter.

The silent treatment.

Felicity had never been on the receiving end of that. Donna Smoak had never fallen silent. The fact that her mother couldn't look at her, couldn't even acknowledge her presence turned Felicity's insides. A ball of fearful nervousness settled in her stomach.

It had grown by the time all statements were made and the assembled police officers and the medics left. (SCPD had brought the latter along to patch up the cut on Felicity's forehead and Sara's split lip. Felicity hadn't mentioned her ribs, bruised when she'd connected with a wall.)

The Smoak-Lances were alone again.

The evening had begun with an uneasy tension, especially Sara had been uncertain about the possibilities this evening might bring. The tension had dissolved very quickly—but now it was back full force, a more hostile air to it.

With an angrily pointed index finger Donna Smoak-Lance directed her daughter and her stepdaughter into the sitting room. The gesture was unfamiliar, too. It didn't fit Felicity's memory of her mother, but it matched the woman she met coming back; the take-charge CEO was taking charge. With a jerk of her head, she made Felicity and Sara sit down on one of the plush couches, taking a seat opposite.

Quentin Lance didn't sit down. With much care, he closed the door and walked over to the gathered women. Nobody said anything. Felicity could feel the nerves coming off Sara, mixing with her own unease. Her best friend stared at the coffee table placed between the two couches, evading eye-contact with everybody, breathing in a way that Felicity knew was a calming technique.

Felicity wasn't calm either. She had worked overtime to come up with a reasonable explanation—and failed. The realization hadn't helped her nervousness at all, but it had helped her make a decision based on everything happening since Felicity had made the mistake of initiating the fight. (And it had been a mistake. It had been too stupid.) The way everybody had acted and reacted sent Felicity a clear message: there was only one thing left for her to do. She wished she didn't have to, she knew Sara wouldn't like this, she knew that her mother might never look at her again afterward, but she had to dare it and hope for the best. She didn't have another choice.

Quentin Lance straightened up. His eyes snapped between his daughter and his stepdaughter. His voice was demanding. "Which one of you is the vigilante?"

"I am."

Without hesitation the words left Felicity's lips. She met his eyes but noticed the way her mother flinched. Donna stared at Felicity, her gaze practically burning into the side of her daughter's. This time it was Felicity avoiding eye-contact, fixing Quentin in fear of everything she might see in her mother's eyes.

"Fe!" Sara breathed.

Holding Quentin Lance's gaze for another moment, Felicity gathered all her determination. This was it, the moment to stick to her decision and come clean. It might burst the bubble that was the Smoak-Lance family, but Felicity couldn't keep on bullshitting her mother and her mother's husband, because it was simply insulting their intelligence. Donna and Quentin Lance were too smart to believe any lie their daughters might try to feed them after the night's disastrous family dinner—as proven by Quentin's question starting this conversation. (It might be a confrontation, really but she liked to stay positive for now.)

Felicity had made a decision, knowing Sara wouldn't agree, knowing she was dragging her friend along and forcing Sara to take a huge risk with her. It wasn't exactly fair but Felicity couldn't change anything about that. There hadn't been any time to discuss it beforehand, not with SCPD around. Slowly, she turned to face the woman sitting next to her. "Sara, we have to tell them the truth. It's all that's left for us to do."

"No," Sara objected, jumping up from the couch. "I don't want him, them, around that darkness. You don—"

"Sit _down_!" Quentin Lance practically barked the order. Sara's eyes grew huge, hearing her father's hard voice. He stood on their right, practically shaking with anger and Felicity couldn't remember ever seeing the man like that. Judging from Sara's reaction neither had she: her legs gave in instantaneously. She fell back on the cushions heavily.

Quentin glared at his daughter. "I have had enough of all those secrets. I'm done accepting your bullshit, Sara. What just happened in there…" he gestured in the direction of their trashed kitchen, "means whatever trouble you've been in has already followed you home. And it's my job to keep this family safe—I can't do that if I don't what we're facing."

A rebuttal that Sara and Felicity were very much capable of handling themselves and if anybody was keeping anybody safe it would be them protecting their parents danced on Felicity's tongue, but she was quick enough to swallow it. She looked at her mother's husband, who had snapped into action three hours ago and had instinctively made up a cover story to hide the true proceedings in the family kitchen. He had lied for them—and for that he deserved the truth.

Still unable to look at her mother, Felicity focused on the standing man. "What do you want to know?"

"Felicity!" Sara chided in an angry whisper full of warning.

Her father ignored her. "How did you learn to fight like that?" His eyes wandered to his daughter. "Why are those people after you?" His attention turned back to Felicity. "How can running around with a bow and arrows seem like a good idea to you?"

A quick glance at her friend told Felicity that Sara wouldn't be opening her mouth anytime soon. Hidden behind a curtain of blonde hair, she fixed her gaze on the coffee table again. The message was clear: Felicity had started it, she had to see this through.

Felicity took a deep breath. She couldn't look at anybody anymore, because if she did she wouldn't get this out. Staring ahead, she said, her voice quiet, forcing herself to stay calm. "After the boat when down, I was washed up at the island. It's called Lian Yu, that's Mandarin for Purgatory, and it wasn't deserted." Felicity found that, because she'd already told Oliver, her tongue moved easier—but, still, this was anything but easy. The stakes were different this time. Her mother's husband was a cop and believed in the law, in doing the right thing—and Felicity had done so many wrong things. She still acted outside the law most of the time. Quentin Lance might want to arrest her for that.

Which was bad.

Worse was the idea of her mother rejecting her. Finding out the truth might make Donna Smoak-Lance hate her daughter. The thought of losing somebody as important as her mother fed the ball of fear in Felicity's stomach.

Donna's measured inhale cut through Felicity's worried thoughts. "Is that why you have all these scars? Because of the people on that island?"

Hearing the softness in her mother's voice, a shudder raced through Felicity. Unable to keep traces of hope from flaring up, she dared to meet her eyes and answered, honestly. "Some of them, yes."

"What scars?" Quentin asked, somewhat aggravated. "What people?"

"Soldiers," Felicity answered the second question. "It's a long story, but they built this camp to bring down a plane. But there were also people… on my side. I started my training with them. Living in the airplane I told you about."

"I lived there, too. For a while." Sara's tentative voice was barely audible.

"You? What?!" In his shock Quentin deflated a little. He gawked at his daughter. "You were on the island, too?"

"I was. The second year."

"You knew she was alive?" He glared at Felicity. "WHY didn't you tell me?"

"Because I thought she was dead. I thought she drowned. Both times. When our boat went down and when the freighter exploded two years later."

"What freighter? What explosion?"

"Fe didn't know I was alive," Sara said, slowly lifting her eyes to plead with her father. "It's better if you don't know more, dad. Can you, please, let this be enough?"

"NO!" He exploded, but visibly pulled himself together. Closing his eyes, he audibly sucked air into his lungs. Aggravated, he shook his head and started pacing, muttering more to himself than addressing the women in the room with him. "I cannot believe this. My daughter's some kind of Amazonian warrior and I'm sharing a house with the vigilante I'm supposed to arrest. I'm standing here like the village idiot, because the girls I'm supposed to protect decide what's best for me to know."

"Dad, you have to trust me on this, I—"

"I have to trust you?!" Quentin stopped his pacing and shot around to glare at his daughter. "When you don't trust me?!"

"Sara," Felicity said in a near whisper. "Four armed man trashed their home. They deserve answers."

"They wouldn't have trashed their home if you hadn't initiated a fight," Sara whispered back, heatedly.

"I evened out the numbers," Felicity defended in a strong whisper of her own.

"No. You acted impulsively—like you did with the tank."

"Not the tank again. That's so four years ago."

"You nearly got us blown up. That doesn't lapse!"

"Okay. Fine." Felicity crossed her arms over her chest. "Then how about the time when I wanted to come clean to Slade and you said we had to keep it secret?"

Sara's face hardened. "That was different." She spared a glance at Donna. Then, she spoke even more quietly, but with emphasis. "And I especially don't want them to know _that_."

"Keeping quiet was a mistake. That _did_ get us blown up!"

"I kept you from getting blown up the other day. I think that—"

"That's enough." Quentin's shout sounded disbelieving but ended the whispered argument. His eyes ping-ponged between the two women sitting on the couch and all he could do was shake his head. "Is this a joke to you?" he asked, hard. "Because I can't find anything funny about this."

"It's not," Sara confirmed.

"Good. One thing we agree on." He fixed his daughter with an angry glare. "Sara. Start talking!"

Helplessly, Sara's eyes darted to Felicity. Reluctance and uneasiness were shining in Sara's eyes. Felicity could relate to that. Sara feared her father's reaction, and her father's rejection, as much as Felicity feared losing her mother's love. But Felicity was convinced now more than before that coming clean was the only possible move left for them. And whatever the outcome, the friends would deal with it together, because they had each other's back. Sending her friend a look filled with compassion, Felicity tried to assure Sara of that and reached for her hand to give it a comforting, encouraging squeeze.

Finally, Sara swallowed heavily. Her voice was coated and very quiet. "After the boat when down I was picked up by a freighter belonging to a scientist…." Felicity huffed, but Sara ignored her. "He headed for Lian Yu, because there was some information he wanted. That's how I found Felicity. The scientist was conducting experiments that came with unwanted side-effects for one of the guys with us on the island, and ultimately we tried to blow the freighter up. I was caught in the explosion, but survived—again. I ended up with a secret agency that continued my training. I've worked for them the past three years. When Felicity decided to come home, I heard about it and did the same. I took some information as leverage—and that's why those operatives came. I was sure that my leverage would be enough to keep them away. I apologize. I miscalculated."

"You apologize?" Quentin repeated.

"I do."

"Oh, good." He raised his eyebrows, mockingly, his words laced with sarcasm. "Then it's all settled." He paused, hrew his hands up. "When were you gonna tell me all this?"

"Never," Sara admitted, quietly. "The work I did in the last three years isn't anything you'd be proud of me for."

Father and daughter stared at each other and Donna used that moment to ask. "What does that mean? 'Felicity decided to come home'?"

Felicity felt her breath hitch in her throat, felt her heart beat faster, stronger than before. Nerves flared within her. She felt caught and afraid at the same time. Again, she couldn't bring herself to face her mother but forced herself to answer her question. "It means that, after the freighter exploded, a military commando got me out of there and to Moscow to fulfill a mission. After that I was kind of messed up and I thought it would be better if you continued to believe I was dead. So, I didn't come home. I went to Hong Kong instead."

"You thought it was better to have me believe you were dead?" Donna's pronunciation was sharp as a knife, suggesting barely suppressed anger and a coming explosion.

Felicity steeled herself and nodded.

Donna stared at her—and burst into tears.

That wasn't what Felicity had expected at all. Helplessly, she looked at her mother, unable to deal with the emotional overload. "Mom," she breathed, feeling truly, _truly_ horrible for the first time since she had returned. Sara's elbow nudged her side and Felicity took the hint to get off the couch. Awkwardly she sank down next to her mother and reached for her hand. Donna's fingers tightened around hers instantly, almost desperately.

Felicity dug her brain for words. "I was a mess, Mom. I know it was stupid. Everything I did in the last two years was stupid and horrible. I'm sorry, Mom. I know that's not enough, but I'm sorry. Please, don't hate me."

Donna Smoak-Lance let go of her daughter's hand and instead pulled her into her arms. "I could never hate you. You're my child. I love you."

Felicity felt her own eyes prickle. "But I'm a horrible person. I did horrible things. In Moscow and in Hong Kong. I…." She trailed off, tears taking her voice from her.

"I don't care," Donna said and tightened her grip. "You're my daughter—and what you did before with the man and gun and the stuff—that was so badass."

Felicity huffed out a laugh through her tears.

"We have a lot to talk about. You have a lot to tell me." Donna's arms stayed around Felicity but her mascara-run eyes landed on Sara. "Both of you have a lot to tell us. We need to talk and figure this out, because we're family now. And you two girls, you went through hell. We know that." She looked at her husband. "We will find a way to deal with that. Work on trusting each other."

Still standing stiffly, Quentin Lance nodded, an emotional turmoil clouding his features.

"I'm sorry," Felicity addressed him. "I know I put you in an impossible position. Because of the taskforce."

"Felicity," Quentin said in a matter-of-fact tone. "You saved 200 teenage girls from slavery. I may disapprove of your measures but I see your results. Give me… some time to come to terms with this."

"Of course."

"Good." He fixed his eyes to his daughter again. "Donna's right: we're family. And whatever you went through, whatever you did, we'll handle it."

"Dad," Sara began, even more hesitant than before. "You don't have to. And it's not really safe for you. For either of you." She shook her head and looked at Felicity. Their breathing fell into the same rhythm the longer they looked, until Sara was able to look back into her father's face and finish, "You don't have to do this."

"Sara," Quentin said, finally bridging the gap between them. "This is what family does," he said, sinking down on the couch next to his daughter. "We're the Smoak-Lances now. And that's final."


	15. I totally walked in on a thing

Your reactions to the previous chapter left me beaming and floating and fist-pumping. I can't thank you enough. I'm excited that you enjoyed the twist and that you are on board with the parents now knowing their daughters' secrets—or at least, parts of them. It's a new dynamic I really love exploring and I hope you'll enjoy it, too. But before we'll get to that we have to deal with something else first. It's a little different, I think, but I hope you'll like it anyway. Happy reading, and: thank you!

 **Albi** , I'm a blind idiot. Thanks for your patience and letting some of your rainbow-colored awesomeness rub off on me. Love, Jules

* * *

 **I totally walked in on a thing**

Shooting RADs was like riding a bike—even if, at the moment, Oliver was steering a remote controlled car with a bomb strapped to it. Virtually, of course. He had reached a point in his life where he needed to actually stress that.

Lounging on his worn-out sofa, he was kicking virtual ass—or, rather, blowing virtual asses up. His legs stretched out, his feet on the coffee table he had built out of (glued together) Legos in college because money had been tight (he kept it because it had turned out pretty awesome), his eyes on the TV, the only thing Oliver moved were his thumbs on his PS4 controller. Following Diggle's direction, Oliver steered the car into the rundown building to his virtual left and flexed his right index finger.

The following explosion mixed with the cheers of his friends. Oliver grinned.

The TV provided the only light, its hard illumination flickering shadows over the living room with the adjoining kitchen. It turned dark for a second as the game ended, taking Oliver back to the loading screen. Leaning forward, he fished a cold pizza slice out of the box (screw breakfast, he deserved a treat for being awesome) and said into the microphone attached to his headphones, "That's what I call a _good_ game."

"Yeah," Diggle's voice hit his ears, "it's about damn time you remembered game night."

Oliver froze, his slice still in hand. He had expected something like that three hours ago when he had logged in. But Diggle and Myron had only welcomed him, telling him to get his head in the game because the RADs were online. "Guys…." he started without knowing how to continue.

"Dude," Myron spoke up before Oliver found suitable words, "cut Ollie some slack. I mean, have you seen his girlfriend? I'd rather spent time with her than with my PS4, too." (Despite the situation, Oliver's heart jumped in happy awe at hearing the word 'girlfriend.' It was still so new, so wonderfully exciting. Felicity Smoak was Oliver Queen's _girlfriend—_ and people knew.)

"It's _one_ night," Diggle shot back, sounding more miffed. "I'm in the middle of war and I made time in the last four weeks but Oliver wasn't there."

Oliver sighed, the happy flash completely forgotten. "I know," he said. "I'm sorry."

And he was, he was sorry. Oliver never wanted to be one of _those_ guys neglecting his friends for a girl (even if she was his girl _friend_ ). Turns out: he was one of those guys. Felicity, her mission, and his new job had kept him away from his TV—meaning that it had also kept him away from his friends.

The countdown to the new game was up, but the controller rested on his thigh, ignored as Oliver's mind was still on the conversation. "I've been busy with the new department and… yeah, with Felicity. I'm sorry I was MIA."

"It's okay," Myron said easily, completely unfazed. "All forgiven. And now start moving, because the RADs are…. DAMN IT!" Myron Forest—the first kill of every game.

Oliver's soldier stood unmoving in the run-down building he had materialized in. The controller still lay abandoned. Oliver needed Diggle's okay before he could move his virtual alter ego. Maybe it was all the time he spent with Felicity and Sara. Maybe witnessing those two friends-turned-stepsisters interact made him want to be as open with his own best friend. Felicity and Sara shared a special connection. Sara liked to keep things to herself, didn't like to actually voice her emotions, but Felicity always knew regardless. And now that Oliver spent so much time with his girlfriend's stepsister, he could read her body language, too, could hear all the things Sara Lance left unsaid. It was a special kind of friendship he was forming, so very different from the connection he shared with Diggle, but that didn't mean that all the years with Diggle meant any less. And he needed to make sure his old friendships were okay even though he was making new ones.

Finally, Diggle said something. But it wasn't what Oliver hoped for. "I worry, Oliver. Felicity Smoak, she's—"

The careful and tense tone in Digg's voice told Oliver of an upcoming rejection and he didn't want to hear it. "You don't know her," Oliver shot back, cutting his friend off.

A red glow settled over the room. Somebody shot at Oliver's soldier; drops of blood splashed over his TV screen. The soldier died. Oliver didn't care. He noticed, but his mind was on the conversation at hand. "You said never judge people from hearsay."

A deep, heavy sigh came out of the headphones. "Yes." Diggle took a second to gather his thoughts. "But there are a lot of red flags for me—even if we ignore the things she did in the past. Think about it, Oliver. She's returned from a deserted island after five years alone. That girl has every right to be messed up in the head. And she's the daughter of your boss. What do you think will happen if you two don't work out? Did you think about that? Or are you blinded by the fancy parties she takes you to."

"How do you know about that?"

"There's something called the internet. We have that in Afghanistan. It's why we're talking right now."

"You're in Afghanistan?" Myron cut in. "I thought you were in Iraq."

"Doesn't matter where I am," Diggle countered. "I saw the pictures from that fundraiser. Lyla asked me to tell you that you looked good in that tux. I noticed that you've lost weight."

"I… did." Oliver felt strangely called out—and he couldn't help but feel that Diggle was unfair. "I started going to the gym—like _you_ suggested."

"I wanted you to go for yourself, not to live up to the expectations of some girl."

"Guys, we're in the middle of a clan war," Myron reminded. "Both of you were killed while discussing Ollie's _weight_. Do any of you realize how ridiculous that is? Now's not the time!"

 _There's no time like the present_ , Oliver decided and ignored his friend's chiding. "Felicity never asked me to lose weight," he clarified. "And I never set out to do it. And just happened with work being hectic and I'm sorry that I like that my shirts fit better." He realized how defensive he sounded and pressed his lips together. He had wanted to play offense, because Diggle's words offended him. He knew that most people didn't believe Oliver Queen was in Felicity Smoak's league. Hell, _he_ himself had gone into their whole… thing believing that—until Felicity had shattered those fears. His faith in Felicity didn't take any of the sting out of the realization that, apparently, his best friend thought Oliver wasn't somebody Felicity could seriously be interested in. And it angered Oliver that Diggle didn't give Felicity the benefit of the doubt but thought the worst of her. She didn't deserve that. She deserved so much better.

"You don't know Felicity," Oliver said, his voice hard, feeling the need to stress that crucial fact. "You don't know anything about my relationship with her and you don't have any right to judge her or me or us together."

"Oliver," Diggle said, sounding unfazed. "You're right. But you're my friend and I worry and I wanted to say my part. Do with that what you want."

Silence followed. Oliver still stared at the TV, witnessing his reborn soldier, standing unattended behind a building, getting killed with a perfect shot. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to keep his voice calm. "Okay. I know you care, but you have it wrong. Next time you're in Starling, you'll meet her and you'll see."

"Uuuuh," Myron exaggerated. "I'll be in Starling next month for a conference. Do I get to meet her, too?"

"Sure," Oliver said, hoping Felicity was okay with that. His voice sounding as tentative as he felt, he addressed his best friend. "Digg?"

"Fair enough."

"Okay," Myron said, "now that that's off the table. Can we try to turn this game around? Because the RADs are way in the lead."

"Not a problem," Oliver declared, finally taking a bite of his pizza. Placing the rest of the slice next to him on the couch, he reached for his controller. "I have another killstreak in me."

"Consider this RAD problem dealt with."

Diggle's self-assuredness wasn't exactly justified. Their mortal Call of Duty enemies absolutely destroyed them in that game, calling for a re-match. They won that, but decided to add another game. And another.

More than an hour had passed when a knocking startled Oliver so much he flinched and missed a sure kill. "Queen!" Diggle hollered in full real-life-drill-master-mode. "What was that?"

"There's somebody on my door." Oliver glanced over his right shoulder and at his front door as if looking at it would improve the situation.

"What? But it's way past midnight!" Myron sounded appalled.

"I'll be right back." Oliver pulled his headphones off and rested them and his controller on the Lego table. Pushing his glasses back up on his nose, he took the three steps toward his front door just as another knock sounded. Oliver glanced through the peephole.

He should have expected it and yet he couldn't help but be surprised, opening the door quickly. "Felicity," he greeted, his surprise resonating in his voice.

"Hey," she said, sounding uncharacteristically small. "I know it's late, but I saw that there was still light in your window and I thought since you're still up I could call—or knock. To be honest, I was on my way to the fire escape when I realized that coming in through your window is borderline stalker-stuff. I really developed some horrible habits. So, that's me, breaking the habit. Knocking. Like a normal person."

"Felicity." This time her name rolled of his tongue in calming reassurance, because she sounded like she needed that. Those were a lot of words from Felicity, and there was a nervous air around her bringing him back to a conference room on SI's top floor and Felicity telling him she couldn't have Italian with him _because_ …. His eyes roamed her face and found the uneasiness he expected plus an entirely unexpected band-aid on her forehead. Without thinking or hesitating, his right cupped her cheek. "Are you okay?"

"Yes and no."

"Which one is it?"

"Both."

Realizing she was standing in the hall all this time (apparently, before knocking like a normal person she had somehow gotten inside his apartment building without being buzzed in from the street), he quickly stepped out of the way, his hand falling from her face. "Come in."

She took two steps inside his apartment and froze. "Oh. I totally walked in on a thing." She turned to him. "On your thing. Guy's night."

"That's okay," Oliver assured her. Seeing her gaze return to the TV, another thought marched through his head. He hurried to shut the door, turned on the light, and took the few steps to her, right into her personal space. Reaching for her hand, he brought his lips to her ear, whispering, "The microphone's on. Diggle and Myron can hear you. I'll say goodbye real quick and then I want to know what happened."

"I'm sorry. For barging in here," she answered, ignoring everything he had said, her voice quiet, timid, and so unlike Felicity that Oliver's worries flared.

His right hand closing around hers, he looked down at her, studying her, trying to figure out what to do next. She was so tense, so guarded, she hadn't been like that around him in a long time and he needed her to relax. He chose reassurance. "Don't apologize." And then he changed his mind and went for teasing instead. "Girlfriends are allowed to barge into their boyfriends' guy's night. It's okay if you can't go one night without…" using his free, left hand he gestured toward himself, "all this."

The timidness dissolved with the blink of Felicity's eyes. Instead, a gleam sparked in them, making the pale blue shine with amusement, showing him his attempt at lighting the mood was working. Matching his playfulness, she said, "Oh?! And what's all _that_?"

"My extensive knowledge of Star Trek trivia and binary algorithms." He added a nod of deliberate seriousness.

"That's true. Binary algorithms make women go crazy."

"Yeah." Another pointed nod. "That's exactly in accordance with every experience I've had with women. _Ever_."

She chuckled. Smiling, she got on her tiptoes and brought her face closer to his. "Too bad I'm not like other women."

Their foreheads nearly touched. "I know. I'm grateful you aren't."

"That's 'cause you're not like other men either." Gazing into his eyes for another moment, she wordlessly told him she wasn't teasing anymore but damn serious and touched her lips to his. It was a tender kiss, soft and gentle. It made Oliver long for more, but before he could deepen it, she broke their connection. Her mouth hovering above his, she whispered, "Your friends are listening."

That was a perfect cold verbal shower. His eyes snapped open (uh, his glasses had fogged up—that was unexpected) and he groaned, unhappily. "Let me say goodbye real quick."

With two steps he was back at his couch and saw the pizza slice he had taken one bite of resting on the brown cloth. A caught and slightly embarrassed sensation rushed through him, and he hurried to place it on top of the pizza box. It was Felicity's first visit at his apartment—that could've gone better. If he had known she'd come over, he would've cleaned up a little. An awkward apology danced on the tip of his tongue, but died there when Felicity asked, "What'cha playing?"

"CoD." Seeing the question in her eyes, he elaborated, "Call of Duty. We're in a clan war against our mortal enemies, the RADs."

"The rats?"

"RADs," he corrected, meeting her eyes as she sank down on the couch next to him. "Their clan's called 'Painting the town RAD'—with an A."

"That's a lame pun."

"Yes!" Oliver beamed at his girlfriend, because she was amazing and _right_. "They _are_ lame. And douchebags. Myron and I know one of them from MIT. He signed us up as Professor Donahough's assistants without our knowledge. We spent one painful semester with the sweaty man and his statistics." He reached for his headphones and added with emphasis, "They _suck_." Quickly, he slipped the headphones into place—aware that his next actions would probably confirm Diggle's worries. "Guys," he said, "Felicity just showed up. I—"

"No!" Myron snapped. "You can't quit. It's a tie. The next game's crucial."

Oliver sighed, heavily, seeing the current game was just ending. "I'm sorry, but—"

"Your clan needs you!" Myron's voice was dripping with exaggerated pathos.

"What's going on?" Felicity asked from next to him. Because of the headphones she could only hear his side of the conversation.

"Tell her your clan needs you," Myron ordered, unusually bossy. "For one more game."

Oliver hesitated. "It's a tie," he explained, meeting her eyes. "Myron says my clan needs me for one more game."

A teasing smile showed on Felicity's face, but it wasn't mocking. Instead there was nothing but fondness in her features and in her voice. "Your clan needs you." She gestured to the controller. "Stick it to the RADs."

"No, seriously. It's okay, I—"

"Oliver," she cut him off, strictly. "It's a war against our mortal enemies. Go, get 'em."

Amusement bubbled up inside him. " _Our_ mortal enemies?"

"Sure," she said, easily. "You hate them, I hate them. That's how it works, right? Tonight I learned that we hate the Bowens, because they're mean to Quentin."

He blinked at her. Finally a smile showed on his face. The urge to kiss her again was overwhelming, but was squashed by Myron's voice in his ears. "Listen to your girlfriend."

"One game," he told Felicity and the men on the other end of the internet connection. He reached for the controller just as the game started. "Pizza?" Oliver asked and jerked his head toward the box. "It's perfectly cold."

Felicity slipped her shoes off and tucked her feet under her, getting comfortable on his couch. "I'd never steal your breakfast pizza." With a wink she scooted closer to him and placed her attention on the TV.

Oliver focused on the game, too—very aware that John Diggle hadn't said a thing. The real life solider remained quiet until Felicity warned a few minutes later, "Ten o'clock."

Oliver reacted too late, his in-game soldier shot by the enemy he had missed on his left. Diggle huffed, but said nothing else. It was a sound full of sarcasm that felt like a reaction to Felicity's warning and rubbed Oliver the very wrong way. Annoyance flared within him, his hands tightened around the controller.

"Don't worry," Felicity spoke up from next to him, obviously taking his tight grip as a reaction to his in-game death, and gestured to the screen. "They're already working on your resurrection. They make coming back from the dead seem easier than it is." Her hand landed on his shoulder and she winked. "Believe me, I've been there."

A cough that sounded like Myron was nearly choking hit Oliver's ears. It brought along a sudden idea. Not hesitating or giving himself a moment to question the wisdom of his next actions, Oliver turned to his girlfriend. "How about you avenge my death?"

"Me?" Her hand fell from his shoulder, stunned. "I've never played. I can't."

"Dude," Myron warned, "we're in the lead."

Digg stayed quiet, saying nothing. Again.

"Sure you can," Oliver ignored his friend and held the controller out to Felicity. Lifting his eyebrows, he dared her to decline. She looked like she was going to for a few seconds but then reluctantly, hesitatingly, took it. "Thumbs on the sticks," he instructed and Felicity did, her eyes glued to the controller. "Look at the TV," Oliver told her. "Okay, now move the right stick. That one shifts the camera and where your soldier's looking. The left one moves him. You always head into the direction you're looking at."

Felicity tensed, her shoulders pulled up, deep concentration visible on her face as she steered the virtual avatar directly into a wall. Her lips pursed. Oliver could practically see her ambition take over. Maybe it was the Arrow in her, rising to the challenge, refusing not to be good at something. His hand fell to her thigh and gave a gentle squeeze. Her eyes snapped to him and he mouthed "relax." She inhaled measuredly. Her shoulders fell, her arms—stiff and held in a 90 degree angle before—loosened and sank to her lap. She rounded a virtual corner perfectly and Oliver told her to put her index fingers on the buttons left and right on the back of the controller. "You aim by pulling the left," he explained.

She did. "Iron sights."

"Exactly. You shoot with the right." She flexed her finger, giving an experimental pull. "That's it," Oliver confirmed and patted her leg. "Don't forget to reload." He pointed at the button. "Have fun." He pulled his headphones off and put them onto Felicity's head, startling her. "Say 'hi' to the guys."

Awkwardness billowed around her. She looked at him with a mixture of surprise, unhappiness, and disbelief. Oliver knew springing this on her was kind of unfair, but he had met her best friend. Face to face. When Sara Lance was an intimidating woman and literally able to kill him with her bare hands. Probably with one hand. Without breaking a sweat. Talking to his friends via internet was a piece of cake, comparatively.

Oliver was absolutely sure that nothing would show his friends how amazing Felicity Smoak was, except experiencing her amazingness first hand.

She swallowed and Oliver knew she was mostly humoring him by saying, "Hi, guys." Her tongue darted out to wet her lips like it always did when she was nervous, but she accepted the challenge and met his eyes, challengingly, when she added, "I'm Felicity."

Oliver smiled tenderly, sending her a wordless 'thank you', and sank back on the couch, watching his girlfriend turn to the TV, the intense focus on her face, her glistening lips slightly parted, her brows furrowed in concentration. She was gorgeous. He forced his eyes away from her and to the TV. He knew the map they were playing by heart and used his knowledge to guide her. She was still struggling with the controller a little, with walking, with aiming, and in the next moment somebody killed her. "Asshat!" she cursed. Her eyes snapped to Oliver. "Who was that?!"

"Natural Born Killer." Receiving a blank stare from Felicity, Oliver added. "Real name's Cooper. He's the one that sentenced us to Donahough-duty." He gestured to the controller. "Press X to respawn."

Felicity's thumb pushed the button instantly. "He's going _down_ ," she said in a voice deeper than normal (but not quite her Arrow-voice). "Natural Born Killer, my ass. It'll be my pleasure to show him what a natural reborn killer like me can do." She froze, slowly her eyes crept back to him, seriousness shining in them. "Even though… killing's wrong, of course."

He scooted even close to her, their thighs touching, his hand falling to her arm. "Of course," he said slightly, aware that his friends could hear him. "It's okay in this context, though." He held her gaze, needing her to know how serious he was and that nothing she did in virtual reality diminished her accomplishments in actual reality.

She nodded in a gesture that was acceptance as much as it was agreement.

Suddenly, she smirked, her eyes moving back to the TV. "Thanks, Myron. I feel avenged."

Oliver chuckled. He had hoped that Myron would be the one to bridge the gap. Whatever his friend had said, it had chased some tension out of Felicity. Oliver focused back on the screen, too. Settling back in his seat, he watched her steer her soldier with more confidence and then... He was about to jump up and celebrate her first kill when her hand flew up. She gave the most adorable little fist pump accompanied by a "YES!", and all Oliver could do was beam at her, meeting her triumphant smile. Should he feel pride because she had gotten the hang of that game after one minute? Because he did.

Her attention went back to the screen. A few moments of silence followed, then Felicity said, "Diggle, on your six." The question how she knew who Diggle was nearly left Oliver's lips, but he swallowed it. Because his friend's obvious SN ( _CanYouDiggIt?_ ) was displayed over his alter ego's head. Felicity noticed such things, she noticed every detail while running through a gap between two buildings and past a hole blown into a wall to warn his friend of the enemy creeping up behind him. (He was talking about something that happened in the game, but he wouldn't put it past her in real life, either.) "Sure," she said, leaving Oliver to guess that his best friend had finally said something (nice) to his girlfriend.

He continued watching Felicity. She got better at the game, more relaxed, talking more. It wasn't exactly a conversation, but Myron and Diggle (most likely Myron) gave her tips and suddenly there was a remote controlled car by her feet. "What do I do? What?" She asked. "There's a bomb on that thing!

It seemed kind of ironic to Oliver that she was slightly frantic now when being faced with an _actual_ bomb had hardly rattled her.

"Okay, okay." She confirmed and muttered, "Blowing people up with electronic toy cars—that's strangely ecofriendly." A moment of silence followed. "Blue?" Oliver didn't need Felicity adding, "That's a good color for a car," to know that Myron had told her about his damn hybrid. (It's blue.) Oliver kept from groaning at his dorky friend and watched Felicity steer the mobile bomb right to where the sniper who had already killed Digg three times was camped. The explosion was perfect.

Felicity laughed slightly next to him. "Guess he's smoaking."

Oliver smirked, shaking his head.

"Yeah," Felicity reacted to whatever either of his friends said. "That sniper's shot his load." She froze one second after the sentence passed her lips and Oliver could practically hear the disbelieving silence. "I mean," Felicity hurried to say, "he blew." She squeezed her eyes shut. " _Up_. He blew up."

Trying not to make her any more uncomfortable, Oliver pressed his lips together to keep from laughing.

She sighed and he could practically see her struggle to find something to say. Oliver was about to try and jump to her aid when Felicity relaxed next to him. "Yes, sir," she said, but there was a lightness in her voice and somehow Oliver knew that Diggle had defused the tension.

Five minutes later the game was over. The RADs had lost (it was close, but _whatever_ , a win was a win). Oliver put his hand on Felicity's naked knee. "Say good game."

"Good game," she echoed, smiling at whatever the others said. "Thanks," she answered and listened again. Surprised, her head turned to Oliver. "Yes, I'd like that. We'll do that when you're in Starling. It's been nice killing RADs with you. Thank you for letting me play with you." She flinched, her lips twisting, but she kept from adding anything else to her last statement and quickly pulled the headphones off, mussing her hair in the process.

Oliver slipped the headphones on. "Okay, guys. Goo—"

"Ollie, dude. You lucky bastard!"

"Yeah," he agreed, knowing that his voice held a softness that wasn't really fitting for a chat with his friends or a game of ego-shooting, but he couldn't help it. Myron's words were the absolute truth. "I am."

"She can play with us again, Anytime. Girl's a natural."

"Oliver," Diggle said, calmly. "Consider the red flags dealt with." Oliver's mouth fell open. That was more than he had dared to hope for. A happy sensation rushed through him. It found its outlet with a chuckle when Diggle added, "She respects the breakfast pizza."

"She does," Oliver confirmed. "Thanks, guys. I'll try to make it next Wednesday. Night."

Diggle and Myron said their own goodbyes. Pressing a few buttons, Oliver powered the PS4 down and turned the TV off. "Thank you for doing that," he said, genuine.

"It was fun. Did you see that Natural Born Killer had less kills than the CoDfather in the end?"

"I did." His beaming grin turned into a frown. "How did you know I'm CoDfather?"

"The name's most you."

"It is?"

"It is. Or did you think I haven't noticed that I have to log into 'pretty fly for a wifi' at the Factory?"

He shrugged. "'Arrow Cave Online' didn't feel secretive enough."

"Arrow Cave," her eyes sparkled. "I like that. We can be Team Arrow."

"No. We won't call ourselves that."

"We'll see," she winked, cheekily, but turned more serious. "Your friends are nice." Sitting sideways on the couch, her legs tucked back under her, she put her hand on his cheek. "I'm sorry."

Another frown darkened his face. "For what?"

"For not thinking about what you being in the Factory every night really means."

"It's just a video game," he dismissed.

"It isn't—and I get that now. You should make time for it. You can play with your friends while I hit mine with sticks." She grunted, casting her eyes to the ceiling. Her hand let go of his face. "I can't believe you let me talk to people."

Oliver chuckled, but it got kind of stuck in his throat. The band-aid on her forehead was a constant reminder that roughly thirty minutes ago she had knocked at his door, unusually shaken. He cradled her hand in his, engulfing it completely. "Tell me about dinner." It was a gentle request, but it was also aiming straight for the thing he needed them to talk about. Even though not dancing around the big issues worked for them, Felicity's next words knocked all the air out of him.

"Dinner was cut short when armed guys crashed through the kitchen windows."

"What?"

"Yeah," she sighed and looked very tired suddenly. "They were people from the organization Sara worked for. They wanted something she took. She calls it leverage."

"They just crashed into your house?"

"They did. With guns raised. All secret killer commando—without the being secret part."

"And then?"

"Then I made a stupid, stupid mistake." He tipped his head, sending her a silent question, and another sigh fell from her lips. "They aimed guns at my mom. And at Quentin. And there were four—at that point they were four—of them and this one woman was all angry and I felt like I needed to tip the odds." His eyes rested on her, calm, waiting for her to say what she needed to say, feeling slight worry at what resembled a ramble for Felicity. In an uneasy gesture she scratched her forehead just below the band-aid. "I initiated the fight, took two of the soldiers out. It was stupid." Her eyes jumped to his, the need to make him understand visible. "My mom was there, Oliver. And I couldn't…. I needed to keep her safe."

A fond smile tugged at corners of his mouth, but never broke through. His free hand moved up to brush a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "I know, Felicity," he said gently, following the line of her jaw with the back of his fingers. "You protect those you care about. It's part of what makes you special." Evading his eyes, she looked at her hand cradled in his. "Hey," he said softly, "What happened then?"

"A fight. A destroyed kitchen. Mom and Quentin lying to the police. And me telling them everything."

Oliver's breath hitched in his throat, his fingers stilled, leaving her face. "Everything?

"Everything," she repeated and added after a moment of hesitation. "Well… I didn't use the word 'Triad' yet—I thought I'd save my run-in with organized crime for the next family night. Quentin scheduled that for next week, by the way. From now on there's a standing Smoak-Lance dinner date every Wednesday."

"So, your mother and her husband…. They took it well?"

"All things considered… yeah, I guess, it could've gone worse." She sank against the couch. "I just couldn't come up with a believable lie. I tipped my hand, because I was the one who'd initiated the fight."

"I think it's good that your parents know the truth," Oliver decided. "It means more people in your corner." A soft smile ghosted over her face, her eyes on him. He felt a sense of calm creep over her as she studied him. Both his hands closed around hers. "How's Sara?"

"Okay?" It came out like a question, and he could see her reconsider her answer. "She wasn't on board with my plan to tell the truth, but I think… she was even more relieved to get some things off her chest than I was. But… you know. She's Sara."

"I know. You should consider not sparring with her for a few days."

An amused huff escaped Felicity. "Good advice—but I won't get around her venting some frustrations." She shifted her weight, sitting back up. Her face twisted in a way that sent Oliver a clear message.

"Are you hurt?"

"Naw," she said—and he recognized the dismissal (aka a lie). She leaned toward him before he could inquire further. Her next sentence was a whisper light like a feather but weighed with sincerity. "Thank you for being in my corner." She kissed him, gently but firmly pressing her lips against his for a long, perfect moment. He felt her breath brush over his skin when she said quietly, "I'm sorry I just showed up at your door like that. But I…. After tonight I needed to see you and… tell you what happened. I'm sor—"

"Felicity," he whispered, equally awed and annoyed. Hearing that he was the one she sought out after a difficult and dangerous evening, that his presence could make her feel better, knowing that she confided in him filled his chest with happiness. But it was dimmed by the fact that she felt like she had to apologize for it. His hands flew up to her face. "Don't apologize. I'm here for you." He couldn't help but add, just because he enjoyed saying it so much, "I'm your boyfriend. My door's always open—and my window, too."

She chuckled and her eyes sparkled with honest joy. "You know the way to a girl's heart. Giving her easy access." She paused, flinched, and gave that little jerk of her head Oliver had come to know pretty well. "One day I'll stop saying things like that, I promise."

He couldn't help but smirk. "I hope that day's very far away. Because I find it very charming."

"You're weird."

"I am."

"I find that very charming." Teasing and warmth mixed in her eyes and it turned her gaze into a fond caress. The sensation it triggered made him touch his lips to hers, kissing her softly but they deepened their connection nearly instantly. His eyes shut with the joy of feeling her close to him, her hands wandering up his bare arms to his t-shirt-covered shoulders. Their tongues never stopped dancing around each other as she rose and got into his lap. She sank down, straddling him, and his hands left her face to rest on her hips. Her arms around him, her fingers played with the hair on the back of his head.

Feeling the need to bring her closer, his hands wandered to her back. She mewed against his lips and pressed herself against him more, deepening the kiss. Her reaction sent an excited tingle of desire through him. It brought along the encouragement he needed. Letting his hands roam higher, up her neck to her hair, he tangled his fingers in the silky strands.

When she finally broke the kiss he was breathless. A sigh escaped him when she sucked on his lower lip while her hands trailed down his chest and under his t-shirt. Lazily, he opened his eyes to find her studying him, her face close to his. He saw the question in her eyes and swallowed heavily. Nerves flared up and made him form words, "I know you haven't been on a deserted island all this time and I don't expect you not to have been—" He stopped himself there, because he couldn't finish that sentence. He felt the heat that had settled in his stomach spread to his cheeks. "We don't have to…."

"It hasn't been five years, but it's still been a while." She said that sentence so easily that it soothed some of Oliver's worries.

Carefully untangling his fingers from her hair, he placed them back on her hips, admitting, "Sadly, the same's true for me."

"We don't have to," she echoed his words less awkwardly. Oliver saw an unfamiliar gleam in her eyes before she pressed her hips down, swaying them slightly. "But I'd really like to."

He knew she could feel how much he'd like to, too. He'd wanted to touch her, be with her completely, for weeks. This was the first time they were alone in a place that wasn't the Factory, but now that they were alone and close and… turned on, he felt his nerves flare uncontrollably. He hated it, but couldn't help it. She was Felicity Smoak and he was Oliver Queen and she had—

"Hey," she said, her hands stilling on his stomach (his not-as-toned-as-he-wanted-it-to-be stomach, he remembered). "What's with the frown-y face?"

"If I tell you, you'll know what a dork I am."

The hint of a smile appeared on her face. "I'm nervous, too." It was another easily spoken sentence. Her admittance knocked all air out of him, because what did she have to be nervous about? He gaped up at her. She rested her forehead against his and whispered, "You're my first boyfriend in… years, or maybe… ever. And this matters. And there are my scars. They're ugly. I've never had a man touch them. And… yeah."

His hand tightened around her hips. "You're beautiful, Felicity." His eyes drilled into her. "God," he rasped, "you're so gorgeous."

Her mouth covered his again, kissing him hungrily, sending him a secret message of encouragement, thankfulness, and urgency all at once. In answer, he dared to move his hands to her knees, under the skirt of her dress, and slip them up her bare thighs. He felt her soft skin under his fingertips and a bump that might be a scar. His hands tightened slightly, giving her a gentle squeeze. A moan escaped her and she broke the kiss. He looked up at her, taking her in: her hair wild, mussed by his hands, her lips swollen from their kissing, her eyes darkened by lust. Really, she was gorgeous.

She licked her lips. (This time it was different from her nervous tick. The difference was small, but he saw it.) Carefully, she slipped his glasses off his nose. Once they were safely on the Lego table, she reached for the hem of his shirt and he got the hint, letting go of her, bringing his arms up, helping her pull his shirt over his head. Letting it drop to the floor carelessly, she bent forward, touching her tongue to his skin. His head fell back against the couch and his eyes shut. His breathing turned deeper, his chest rose and fell as Felicity explored it, licking a hot trail over his skin. He forced himself to open his eyes, to enjoy the sight of her mouth on his skin.

She took her time and finally it was him getting impatient—and worried, because she was still fully dressed and he needed to make her believe that her scars weren't ugly to him. He reached for her, pulling her up to him again. "What you say?" He didn't recognize his own voice. "Should we take this to the bedroom?"

She met his eyes. "I say we should." She climbed off his lap.

Reaching for her hand, he led her to the bedroom, stopping next to the bed, awkwardly. The bed wasn't made, but—thank God—he had changed the sheets only yesterday. (They were a neutral blue. He wasn't such a dork that he slept in Star Wars sheets… at the moment.) He shifted his weight uneasily until he saw a visible wave of determination go through Felicity. She reached for the side of her dress, pulled the zipper down, and shrugged it off her shoulder. The dress pooled around her feet, leaving her only in her underwear. She gazed up at him and instantly he knew she'd been honest before: she was nervous. Never had he seen such an unsure look in her eyes. Quickly, her eyes darted away, avoiding. An unexpected and unfamiliar wave of protectiveness flared through him. He reached for her, kissing her again in what he hoped was reassurance before he finally did what he had wanted for so long.

His lips nibbled their way down her neck to her cleavage. She helped him by opening her bra, and he continued his exploration down her body, sinking to his knees in front of her in the process. Her hands moved to his head. He took his time, caressing her, mapping her skin, marked and unmarked, with fingertips, lips, and tongue. He noticed the bruising on her ribs, remembering her earlier wince, so he kept his touches feather-light there.

There was an especially big scar on her stomach, a long slash denting her skin as if a slice was missing. He felt her muscles flex under his hands, felt her tension as he touched it. From his kneeling position he looked up at her, meeting her eyes that looked moister than usual. Holding her gaze, he kissed the scar, gently, full of tenderness. Her tightened mouth relaxed, her features evened out, the worry vanished, and as his caresses continued, her eyes slipped shut. She softened under his lips, and a wave of relief crashed through him (and contentment that he had managed to take away some of her worries). Her breathing grew deeper, her hands on his head tightened. A gasp turned into a moan as his fingers trailed up her inner leg.

He looked up at her again and found her heavily lidded gaze on him. "You're a tease," she breathed.

"I'm getting to know my girlfriend," he corrected.

She cupped his chin and signaled him to get up by adding gentle pressure. "It's appreciated," she said, huskily and reached for his belt, opening it and the button of his jeans with skilled hands. "But you're overdressed."

He didn't have a comeback. All he could focus on was Felicity sliding his pants down and sneaking her hand into his underwear, finding him hard and ready for her. Her fingers closed around him, adding perfect pressure, stroking. It was amazing—too amazing. He freed himself from her and kissed her again, backing her up to the bed. It was closer than he thought and his pants were still around his ankles. They fell clumsily, a tumbling mess of limbs and clashing skin. She laughed next him and her honest reaction made it possible for him to chuckle, too. He lifted his head to meet her sparkling eyes. "I'll do the unromantic thing and get undressed, if that's okay."

"Yes," she said, smirking, "do that before we seriously injure ourselves." She winked and watched him get up.

When he climbed back onto the bed, Oliver was naked, condom in place. Having lost her panties, she was equally bared to him, resting on her back, propped up on her arms, watching him. Her gaze drilled into him and it brought a sudden shift of atmosphere, squashing the lightness of before. His nerves flared again, the awkwardness returned with a flash. He tried to push it down, but she was naked and he was naked, and this was happening. He had never been this self-conscious before and he hated that he was now. But he couldn't stop it, couldn't relax and get lost in the moment.

She held her hand out to him and rested back on the mattress. He followed her unspoken request and settled next to her on his side. She whispered, "Did I ever tell you that you're handsome?" The disbelief he felt must've shown on his face, because she added, "Because you are. Very."

She had never told him that. In fact, nobody had ever told him that. He didn't know how to react, what to say. He simply stared at her. A smile danced around her lips until she touched them to his. The kiss brought him back to the here and now, back to the bed and Felicity scooting closer to him, her warm body heating his, her soft skin feeling perfect under his fingers. His right hand trailed down her body, slowly, sliding below her navel. She broke the kiss, gasping for air. She met his eyes. "Don't tease."

He smirked and dipped his finger into her, finding her ready, excited. Her eyes fluttered shut and he studied her every reaction, adding his thumb and feeling a thrill of excitement when he brought a gasp from her. Her eyes shot back open and her hand flew to his cheek. "I need you," she admitted, her voice raw in a way he had never heard before. All he could do was move over her.

Guiding himself into her, a groan escaped him, mixing with her humming. His eyes squeezed shut. She was all around him, warm, tight, and perfect and he…. He just needed a moment. The sensation was too much, he couldn't or he would... His eyes closed, he stayed still. When he forced his eyes open again, they connected with hers instantly. He was deep inside her. It was an intimate position, but somehow their eyes linking added even more intimacy. It caused his breath to hitch in his throat and his heart to beat faster for reasons way beyond their bodies' connection.

This wasn't perfect sex, he didn't kid himself into believing it was, but somehow this was still everything. It was them, and she was looking at him, seeing him, wanting him. Just _him_. The corners of his mouth curled upward, as did hers, heightening their connection even more. Right in that second they were one in every sense of the word and she wasn't some experienced ex-it girl and he wasn't some nerdy IT guy that had only slept with two women. They were just Oliver and Felicity and they were together and they were making love and nothing else mattered.

He kissed her again and started moving, gently, slowly. She met his movements, matching his speed. His lips left hers, wandering to her neck, feeling the puckering of her pulse point under his tongue. Her hand moved down between her legs, Oliver noticed and moved his own down, replacing her finger with his, needing to be the one to send her over the edge, needing her to find pleasure in this, because anything else was unacceptable.

Desire tingled at the base of his spine, his movements turned quicker. He forced himself to slow down again—he couldn't speed ahead and leave her behind. But he felt her heavy breath against his cheek, heard her moans in his ear, and felt the urgency in the way she angled her hips up at him. It spurred him on in return and his fingers pressed down harder. She gasped his name and that was what made him explode. He shuddered and pleasure spiked, cascading through his body in a perfect wave, her name falling from his lips. On the edge of his consciousness he noticed her nails digging into his back. And then she fluttered around him and that heightened his delight even more, because… yes. Thank God!

Gasping for air, they came down from their highs. Oliver felt bliss mixing with relief. His blood rushed in his ears, his heart hammered in his chest. He kissed her again, but it was only a peck, because he needed to bring air into his lungs. Towering over her, he rested his forehead against hers. "I—" he started, but didn't know what to say not to ruin this. He swallowed.

"Not bad for the first time with all that pressure," she said softly, genuinely.

He huffed happily.

She inhaled soundly and cupped his face. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For just… being you."

He kissed her again. It was the only thing he could do. This woman, his girlfriend, simply left him speechless.


	16. So, that happened

To be honest, I was very nervous about the previous chapter, because I feared that maybe the whole gaming thing was too elaborate and boring and that the awkward sex wouldn't work [because, you know, it kind of should... ;) ]. So, the love you sent my way was more than amazing. It also helped me through some very, very busy weeks and I can't thank you enough.

To be honest again, I'm pretty excited about posting this chapter—so I just hope that won't backfire. ;)

Shout out to my vacationing unicorn **Albiona**. Thank you for making sure this chapter got to me before you left. You are awesome!

Love, Jules.

* * *

 **So, that happened….**

Waking up in a bed not her own wasn't foreign to Felicity Smoak. That was a sad truth she wasn't too proud of. But that also held different meanings. There was the obvious waking up next to a stranger with a hammering in her head, and the burning question where her shoes were, and a foul taste in her mouth (literally a bad taste; figuratively speaking Fe Smoak had rarely regretted her actions). During her years away from Starling (the ones she usually summed up as her 'island time' despite the off-island episodes), she had woken up in worse places than a strange bed. There had been cages, cells, trunks, a cave, a bunker, a butcher's shop, and an ice-cream truck (that had been the worst, actually).

Luckily, all of that was in the past.

Today was the first post-island morning Felicity woke up in a bed that wasn't her own. It also was the first post-island day she started with a smile.

The sun creeping through the gap between the curtains revealed, in Felicity's opinion, the best sight she could ever wake up to: Oliver.

He was sleeping. His face was completely relaxed, peaceful even. His hand tucked under his pillow, he rested on his side, towering over Felicity as she lay on her back next to him. The amount of light entering the room told Felicity that it was past six. The digital clock on the nightstand next to her told her she was right. Its red numbers read 6:26. Felicity hadn't slept this long in years. She hadn't felt this rested, happy, and content in years.

Rolling to her side, she scooted closer to Oliver, careful not to wake him, ignoring the urge to run her fingers down his nose, along his stubble-covered jaw, over his eyebrows that weren't exactly bushy but thick. Instead, she let her eyes trail over his face, drinking him in: the tiny wrinkles around his eyes telling tales of laughter, that tiny patch of thicker and darker hair in the midst of his blonde stubble, the crook in the bridge of his nose.

Oliver had been so tense last night. She had recognized the way he held himself and his more labored breathing. Twice had she seen him like that: sitting in a movie theater being the center of attention and walking toward a black limo in a tux to go to a fundraiser. Both times he had been faced with her official self, with the woman people saw in her or remembered her as. Last night, his tension had forced an especially strong pang through Felicity, because she had a very good idea where his head had gone. And she hated it. The idea of Oliver comparing numbers and sexual experience, of him thinking of her pre-island self, wasn't exactly a turn-on.

Their first time together hadn't been a 'get it over with' situation… but close. Felicity had sensed that Oliver couldn't relax just yet. He was way too much in his own head and only doing it (literally) would take some pressure off (literally and metaphorically).

Last night hadn't been the most mind-blowing sex of Felicity's life. It hadn't been all passion and ripped off clothes and sure hands—and he had such _great_ hands. (She might have imagined it like that. A little bit. A few times. Okay, many a few more times. Whatever.) But despite that, to her it had been perfect for what it was. It had been searching and insecure at times, but it had also been real and good and loving. Hearing her name fall from his lips in a gasp of desire, his voice cracking on the last syllable, had been amazing. It had been everything. Because it was her real name, all four syllables, not some shortened version she didn't like, not some curse or—worse—a 'baby.' Oliver was with her, knowing her, wanting her, seeing _her_. It had been that moment that her vision had whitened, because of what she felt for him and what he gave to her, what they were and could be and hopefully would be. It was a memorable first time, definitely. She could never have imagined it like that.

A shrill beeping ripped her out of her thoughts. Falling to her back, she looked at the clock. It was 6:30 and, apparently, time for Oliver to get up. His alarm was the most annoying high-pitched sound, but it didn't seem to rattle him in the slightest. He still lay there, sleeping. Wow, her boyfriend was a deep sleeper. Felicity envied him a little. She was all too aware of the dangers that came from unconsciousness.

Deciding there were better ways to get woken up, she pressed the button on top of the clock and silenced the alarm. Turning back to Oliver, she finally dared to do what she had only thought of before: run her fingers over his forehead, following his brow, his nose. He started to stir when her fingers traced his lips. She knew he was almost fully awake by the time she traced his jaw. "Good morning," she whispered. "Time to get up."

"Mor'ing," he answered, his tongue heavy. He opened his eyes the barest bit, glancing at her through tiny slits, studying her for a moment. Pulling his hand from under his pillow, he brought it to her face.

Silently, resting on their sides, they took each other in. Felicity knew that he needed a moment to come to and she gave it to him, enjoying the peaceful atmosphere in the room that grew steadily lighter as the sun rose outside.

"So," Oliver finally said, his voice hoarse, "that happened."

"I'm glad it did."

"Me, too." A sparkle flared in his eyes. He gently moved his hand through her hair, brushing it back. "We'll practice. I heard that makes perfect."

She bit back a smirk. "I thought we had a pretty good start—and finish."

He inhaled soundly, nodding. "Yeah," he breathed. "I'm sorry for the middle. I got a little in my head."

He felt the need to apologize. Felicity hated that. She also hated what he had most likely gotten in his head about. She hesitated for a second before daring to speak. "I know," she said timidly, "that I have... a reputation. And it's not exactly _wrong_. I've been... I don't want to say slutty, because women should be able to have sex without being labeled, but, sadly, I feel like the label fits my past. And I need you to know this is different."

He gawked at her.

Felicity felt her face get warm. Was she blushing? When was the last time she had blushed? About sex. Had she never done that? Sudden, unfamiliar awkwardness continued to move her tongue. "I mean, you and me, we're different. Our relationship. And—"

"Felicity." His calm way of saying her name shut her up instantly. "I _know_." His eyes rested on her and the understanding she saw in them soothed her. The shared ease lasted a few heartbeats. Within the blink of an eye it was as if the awkwardness had jumped from her to him. "I wasn't..." he started and cleared his throat. "It wasn't about you. It was about me. Because I've only had... a few girlfriends. And I don't think you were a slut, but I know you're more experienced than I am and... I wanted it to be a good experience for you."

Now it was Felicity gawking. He didn't think of _her_ shortcomings. He thought that he was the one who'd fallen short, not been good enough. She stared up at him, stunned but also angry with herself for not figuring it before, that she had made him spell it out for her.

"Oliver, you're an idiot." The words left her lips before she could stop them. She hurried to soften them. "But you're my idiot, so that's okay." She saw a spark in his eyes that made her cup his cheek with her hand. "You're special. You're the first man I'm sharing something like this with. I'm experiencing a lot of new things with you and they are _all_ good. Right now there aren't many people out there who know the real me. And nobody knows me as well as you do. And all I want is the real you."

Pressing his lips together, he nodded, a thankful air clouding around him. Right in that second, Felicity vowed to never stop telling him that he was everything she wanted, that he was more than good enough for her in every way, that he was a better man than she deserved.

He bent down to peck her (she was grateful for the chaste connection, because, wow, double morning breath) when the alarm sounded again. Oliver reached over her and ticked a tiny lever on the side of the clock.

Felicity looked up at him. "Time to go to work?"

"No," he said. "I have another hour. How about breakfast?"

"An hour? Why did you set the alarm this early?"

"Normally, I go to the gym in the mornings, but I'll skip that today to show off my perfect coffee-making and egg-scrambling skills."

"You…." Felicity couldn't believe what she was hearing. She had noticed that he'd lost weight, sure, but she hadn't known it had been so… deliberate. "You go to the gym. Since when?"

"A few months back. I figured since I couldn't get out of the membership I might as well use it."

"So, you're, what…? Lifting weights?"

"Cardio on the rowing machine." Seeing the doubt on her face, he admitted with a sigh, "And, yeah, I started light weightlifting a few weeks back."

"Why?"

"What?"

"Why are you going to the gym?"

"To get fit."

"You don't have to get fit because of me."

"Not everything I do is because of you. We weren't even together when I started exercising."

"Then, why didn't you tell me?"

"Felicity," he started to sound annoyed. "What's wrong with getting in better shape?"

"Nothing. Everything."

He frowned at her.

"What we just talked about with you getting in your own head and..." She sighed, starting anew, "I know people say mean things. And I don't want you to feel like you have to change anything about yourself—for me. Because you don't have to. I'm into you."

He smirked. "You're into me."

"Very much. I mean I let you into me." She groaned, falling to her back, her hands covering her face, muttering into her palms, "I'm so lucky you're into me, too."

He chuckled. "I am." He kissed her naked shoulder and spoke against her skin. "Very much." He added another kiss before gently wrapping his hand around her wrist, revealing her face to him. "I started going to the gym because of… what you think. But I'm still going because I like it. I like walking up stairs without puffing and I like that my shirts don't stretch around my stomach anymore. It stopped being about other people."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

"Okay. Good." She cleared her throat. "I'm sorry, but…." She swallowed, continuing more quietly, "It's like the outside and the past crashed into our bubble."

"We have a bubble?"

"We do. I love our bubble. It's just you and me in here and we're us. But it kinda burst last night. And this morning, too."

"Yeah," he admitted, avoiding eye-contact.

"It's okay," she decided for the both of them. "We'll just let all of that go and add sex to our bubble."

A smirk slowly crept on his face. "Okay."

"Good. Then that's settled, too. Now. I believe I was promised breakfast before I start my walk of shame."

"Is it a walk of shame if you leave your boyfriend's place?"

"Since I'm not ashamed of anything that happened here last night—including successfully fighting a clan war—I'd say, no, it isn't." She motioned to the door. "Time to scramble some eggs."

He set a peck on her mouth. "Yes, ma'am."

* * *

Apparently, lunch held more dangers than Felicity knew.

That, or fashion had changed drastically while she was missing from the trendsetting scene and protective gear was all the rage nowadays.

Those were the only two reasons Felicity could come up with why her mother presented a helmet to her, gushing with a smile, "Isn't it cute?"

Felicity hadn't even entered Donna Smoak-Lance's office. The handle of the glass door against her palm, she froze on the threshold, taking in her giddy mother. Zooming in on the helmet, she decided that the definition 'cute' might work; it was one of those scooter helmets without a visor. Plus, it was bright pink. "It is," she finally answered and stepped into the room, the glass door falling shut behind her. "What do you need a cute helmet for?"

"Sweetie," Donna said, setting the helmet down on her desk—on her keyboard, Felicity noticed but forgot to comment on it when her mother continued, "to ride with you on your bike, of course."

"What?" Her eyes snapped to the other woman. "Why would you want to do that?"

"I can hardly ask my driver to take me to your secret lair, can I?" The sentence left Donna's lips as if it were the most obvious and logical thing ever. Tipping her head slightly, she studied her daughter, "You do have a secret lair, don't you?"

Felicity blinked, stunned. "I..." Her grip tightening on the bag filled with Italian food. She glanced through the glass wall and found Gerry at his desk, talking to somebody on the phone. She placed her attention back on her mother. "I do."

"I want you to take me there."

"On my bike?"

"Yes. For secrecy's sake."

"Right, because Donna Smoak-Lance riding on a motorbike in a tight pencil skirt, wearing a bright pink helmet won't draw _any_ attention."

For a few seconds the Smoak women stared at each other—until Felicity sighed and gestured toward the desk. "Please, take the helmet off the keyboard."

Donna snatched the thing up and set it down on the glass with more force than necessary. Her heels clicked on the floor as she stomped around the desk. "Felicity Megan Smoak, I don't care if we go by bike or taxi or if you teleport me there, but tonight you will pick me up from work and take me to your hideout."

"Mom—"

"No!" An accusing index finger pointed at Felicity. "You said you were done with all those secrets. Now it's time you live up to your word."

Felicity inhaled measuredly, audibly, fighting down the 'NO' threatening to burst past her lips. She didn't want to take her mother to the Factory. She didn't want her mother near her weaponry, her training spot, around all that both represented. She didn't want to let her mother into that space of her life. Yet she knew Donna had a point: Felicity _had_ promised to tell the truth, to answer all questions, to stop lying. She had hurt her mother by admitting that she could have come home sooner, that she chose to let her mother believe she was dead longer than necessary, by not letting her in on her secret immediately.

The simple truth was, if Felicity wanted to make up for that, she had to let her mother in further than she had originally intended.

Felicity swallowed heavily, forcing the objection down. "Okay."

"Good." Donna sent her a satisfied glance and took the bag of takeout from her. "I'm glad you came around before the food turned cold. I was prepared to see this through to the end, no matter how long it took." She walked toward the sitting area. "I'm guessing Quentin will have a harder time convincing Sara."

A huff left Felicity's lips before she could stop it. She sat down opposite her mother. "Yeah, I guess that's a safe bet."

* * *

Amusement and annoyance battled within Felicity. Her mother's giddy excitement made Felicity want to both hug and shake her.

Making a show of it, Donna Smoak-Lance took off the black helmet Felicity had given her (because, seriously, pink was way too recognizable and attention-grabbing) and shook out her blonde locks. It was a slow-motion moment in real time and her mother was doing it on purpose. Donna positioned the helmet next to her waist, taking the clichéd biker-stance, and smirked. "That was exciting!"

Her giddiness was kind of adorable, but Felicity couldn't help but feel like her mother wasn't taking any of this seriously. This wasn't some field trip! What lay underneath this building wasn't a game, some exciting funhouse to visit. This was the place to prepare for battle and get in the right headspace for confronting those harming the city and its people.

Overexcitement had no place in the Factory.

"You were right," Donna stated, oblivious to her daughter's thoughts, and brushed her hand over the jeans Felicity made her change into. "This is one of the moments a pencil shirt doesn't work." She winked. "A sentence I never thought I'd say. I think I need a leather jacket."

Felicity groaned, but kept from saying anything else. She simply swung her own jeans-covered leg over the bike and took off her helmet, revealing her hair pulled back in a low ponytail and tucked into the collar of her jacket.

"I want you to teach me how to drive a bike."

"Okay, one," Felicity said, indicating for her mother to follow her as she started walking down the alley next to the Factory, "you don't drive a bike, you ride a bike. And two: the answer is _no_!"

"I second that second answer." Quentin Lance said rounding the corner, an unhappy-looking Sara by his side. "Those things are death traps on two wheels."

"It's sexy," Donna corrected. "Imagine me on that thing with all that power, wearing—"

"Okay," Felicity cut in. She couldn't take it any more; the annoyance won. "That's _enough_."

Normally, she was fine with her mother's antics, with her jokes and her ability to ease tension with a flippantly spoken sentence, but none of that belonged here. She was serious about this: nothing about what lay behind the hidden door was a laughing manner, nothing that had happened behind that door was fun and games, and she needed her mother to understand that. She needed her to know that once they passed through the door, they entered Felicity's domain, her sanctuary, and she was calling the shots.

The parents looked at Felicity, stunned and taken aback.

"Now that you've all heard Felicity's Arrow voice," Sara cut into the uneasy silence, speaking up for the first time, "we should get in—or away. But crowding in front of our secret entrance isn't exactly smart. And—for the record—I don't think ether of you should go in."

"I agree," Felicity said, calmer now that the atmosphere no longer resembled a school fieldtrip. She looked at Sara, "But I made a promise." She fixed her mother. "This is _my_ hideout," she told her, strict but not threatening, "not some amusement park." Holding her mother's gaze a second longer, she let that sink in and turned to the wall.

A few weeks back, she installed this side entrance leading from the alley directly into the Factory—going in through the empty hall had felt overly complicated. Her fingers pressed on an inconspicuous spot. A panel snapped open. Felicity started punching numbers.

And she continued punching numbers.

"Wow, that's an elaborate code," Donna mumbled.

Pressing the last button, Felicity looked at her mom, "256-bit encryption." She pulled the door open and walked in first. Her mother's heels (because she couldn't be made to wear any other footwear) clicked on the concrete, followed by Quentin's quieter and Sara's inaudible steps.

The room lay in darkness, only disturbed by the blinking of the servers and the green letters and symbols scrolling up the computer screens—signs that Oliver's programs monitoring various databases were running. With a loud 'clack,' Felicity pushed up a lever and the harsh neon lights flickered to life, revealing the Arrow's base of operations in all its bare practicability. Felicity moved to the side, her posture stiff, giving her mother and her mother's husband time to take a look.

Both instantly focused on the same thing. As if pulled by a magnetic force, they moved slowly toward the case containing the Arrow suit. The couple stared at it, then each other, then the suit again. Staying silent, they moved together to stare at the bow inside the next case.

Sara positioned herself next to Felicity, crossing her arms over her chest, sending Felicity a glare that said 'this is all _your_ fault'.

Felicity accepted the unspoken accusation with a nod and watched the couple as they circled the room and took everything in: the work bench with the arrows Felicity had sharpened to perfection, the training mats, the wooden dummy, the weights, and basket of tennis balls. Donna Smoak-Lance frowned. "What are those for?"

"Target practice," Felicity answered.

Her mother stared at her, making it seem as if Felicity had spoken in a very foreign language. Donna motioned to her right. "And what's that?"

"Sara's favorite pastime."

Donna's eyes traveled to her stepdaughter, who answered, "It's a workout device. Core and arm strength."

Slowly Donna nodded, falling quiet again.

Quentin Lance stood next to the workbench. "You make your own arrows?"

"I do. I need to make sure they're balanced right."

"How do you know who to put them in?"

The detective's question held the air of a somewhat hostile interrogation. Felicity didn't bat an eye. "I have some insight in the local mob scene."

"How?"

"I worked for them for a year." There is was: the truth that could break the whole fragile peace between her and the police officer. He believed in the righteousness of the law and had a clear idea where to draw the line to determine who was operating outside of it. "In Hong Kong," Felicity added, putting it all out there. "I worked for the Triad before I came back."

"You—" Quentin gasped in consternation. "Well, that's just _rich_!" He threw his arms up in the most helpless gesture possible. "My daughter's an ex-assassin trained by a shady super-secret organization. And my stepdaughter's a Triad member. If that doesn't make me the worst cop possible, I don't know how!"

Sara's eyes were glued to the floor. Her head was bowed, creating a curtain of blonde hair, her favorite hiding technique. Felicity remained as stiff as she had when the parents had entered her hideout. She refused to back down, because they—Quentin and Donna—had wanted this. They wanted the truth, and Felicity had promised to give it to them.

Feigning confidence, she met Quentin's eyes, "The best way to take them down is with inside knowledge. I have that. I know how to do serious damage to the Triad's operations in this city—as well as the Russians'." A tremor snuck into her voice. She hated it, but couldn't help the shame, the awareness of every wrong she had committed while gaining that inside knowledge. It mixed with the longing, the need to make up for it, even if she could never make things right again. "I know I've done horrible things. I'm not a good person, but I'm doing this for the right reasons. You said my results couldn't be argued with."

"Yes," Quentin admitted, hesitantly. "I did say that. And I meant it. So," he said, snappier again, "all this is… _what?_ Atoning for your sins?"

It sounded stupid when he said it like that, and Felicity couldn't agree. She had to phrase it differently. "It's me making a positive change in this city and the people who live here. It's me using what I can, what I'm good at for the right reasons for once."

Silence followed. Quentin and Felicity stared at each other until Sara's small voice cut through the tension. "Felicity _is_ doing a good thing." She lifted her head, looking at the others. "She's a good force in this city. And… I like being a part of it." She met her father's eyes. "You said you'd love me no matter what I've done. Felicity didn't do worse than I did."

Her words billowed through the cold and bare room, dissolving into nothing. Again, the four people were silent.

A shutting door startled them. All four people turned toward the sound of quick footsteps, growing louder.

"Felicity, you have to hoo—" The words died on Oliver's tongue as he stepped past the stacked boxes with targets drawn on them and saw the people assembled staring at him. He froze. "Um," he swallowed heavily, "hi."

"Even _he_ knows?!" Quentin Lance snapped, throwing his hand in Oliver's direction.

"He's our tech expert," Felicity said, calm but strong. "He's an important member of Team Arrow."

"God!" Sara groaned. "We're not calling ourselves that."

"That's what I said." Oliver visibly shook his stupor off and continued walking toward the Smoak-Lances. "Mrs. Smoak-Lance. Mr. Lance," he greeted and placed his full attention on Felicity, "I'm sorry, but this is urgent. There's a hostage situation at Starling City Central Bank. Apparently, somebody triggered an alarm and the vault locked shut and now they're threatening to kill hostages if nobody comes to reopen it."

Quentin Lance pursed his lips. "The bank has a non-negotiation policy." He reached for his cellphone. "That'll end badly."

"No," Felicity said, determined. "It won't." She met Oliver's eyes. "Try to access the security system. Get me anything you can. I'll hood up."

* * *

His three screens showed three different security feeds. It gave Oliver a very good idea what Felicity would walk into. "Three robbers in the main room, keeping the hostages in check," he informed her via com link, making sure his voice was calm and business-like. She was on the roof, getting ready to enter the bank, and he wouldn't have his own nerves unsettle her before going into battle. There wasn't any need to tell her that there was a young child in that bank, a boy who was crying heavily in the arms of a man, because that couldn't be on her mind. She also didn't need to know about the clown masks and how creepy they looked, because that would hardly rattle the Arrow. But she needed to know about what was going on in the back of the bank. "Two are by the vault, arguing." The security feed came without sound, but the high-stakes tension couldn't be missed. One of the two men in the vault kicked the huge round door.

Donna Smoak-Lance huffed, muttering, "Yeah, that'll help you, buddy."

Oliver ignored the woman (who was his formidable boss and girlfriend's intimating mother) sitting next to him in a rolling chair. "They're all carrying automatic weapons," he told Felicity, glancing at the tablet Donna Smoak-Lance held. "Handguns," he specified, studying the display. Donna Smoak-Lance pointed at one that did look like the model the robbers used. "Uzis—we think." He should be better at that, he needed to study weapons that weren't part of CoD. He'd do so first chance he got.

"Okay," Felicity's voice came out of the speakers. "Coordinate with Quentin to get the hostages out. Sara, keep your position in the back."

"Roger." Sara was all business.

"Oliver," Felicity had turned the voice modulator on. "Do it."

He kept from adding 'be safe,' even though he needed her to be, and pressed the enter key, activating the program to override the measures securing the entrance of the ventilation system. Oliver had pulled up blueprints of the bank and, since the robbers had rigged the doors with explosives, the air vents were the only way in. Why they had brought explosives and why they weren't trying them on the vault, Oliver couldn't even guess. Those clowns were probably the worst bank robbers imaginable—and that was very worrisome.

The code running over the middle one of the three screens showed him that his program had done the trick. "All clear," he said.

"I'm going in."

Donna Smoak-Lance shifted in her seat, inhaling deeply. Oliver could feel the tension coming off her. He understood. Being a passive bystander, being able to do nothing but watch from afar was nerve-wracking. Oliver cut the connection from the Factory to Felicity so she couldn't hear them. He turned to his boss. "Felicity knows what she's doing. She's got this."

"She's very bossy when she's…." Mrs. Smoak-Lance trailed off, twirling her finger at the surrounding room, referring to everything it stood for.

"She is," Oliver admitted. "She's focused. That's a good thing. We want that. It keeps her safe."

A nod was the mother's only reaction, her eyes were glued to the screen showing the posh main room of the bank, the twenty people cowering in the middle of it, the three people circling the room.

Suddenly one of the robbers doubled over. He looked like he was howling in pain, letting go of the gun, his arm rendered useless by the arrow through his forearm. The others stopped, stunned, staring, confused. The Arrow dropped right in the middle of them. Oliver knew she used a cable to secure her descent, they could hear the tell-tale singing of rope through the speakers in the Factory since Felicity's end of the com link was open, but her appearance on screen was still sudden.

Felicity's movements were elegant and precise. Oliver had seen it many times, but it was still impressive to him. She didn't just blindly attack, she made sure to direct the men away from the hostages. One pressed the trigger of his machine gun, sending bullets into a wooden counter, splinters flying again.

The loud banging echoed through the Factory. The battle sounds, the shouts and cries of the hostages, Felicity's breathing were transmitted through the com's connection. Donna Smoak-Lance gasped at the shots. Her hands clenched, holding tight, watching as Felicity jumped, slung her legs around one clown's neck, and used her entire bodyweight to slam his head against what was left of the counter. The Arrow was moving again as another volley of bullets sprayed where she had been just a heartbeat ago.

Oliver clicked his side of the com back on. "The guys from the back are coming to you."

On his screen Felicity let go of another arrow, a net wrapping itself around the shooting robber, rendering him immobile in seconds. Oliver appreciated that she did it quickly, didn't prolong the fight unnecessarily. As if hearing his thoughts, Felicity marched to the guy with the arrow sliced through his arm and knocked him out with a well-placed kick against his chin.

She turned around, facing the direction another robber approached from. She drew her bow and shot two arrows in rapid succession, entering beneath the man's shoulder blades, nailing him to the wall behind him.

"Wow," Donna Smoak-Lance breathed, but it was nearly drowned out by the deafening bang rattling the speakers.

Oliver's eyes snapped to the left screen. "The last robber blew the back door. Sara, he's coming your way." He clicked on his keyboard, switching the view to a traffic camera he had hacked ten minutes earlier. It was perfectly positioned for their needs.

"Yeah," Sara stated, calmly. "I noticed the explosion."

Oliver kept from commenting.

"Smart ass," commented Mrs. Smoak-Lance.

He bit back a smile—this wasn't the right moment for amusement—and saw Sara engage the robber. On another screen he saw the policemen positioned in front of the bank starting to move—they must have noticed the explosion, too. Luckily, Sara was as efficient as Felicity. Not even twenty seconds after the fight begun, the guy lay on the ground, unconscious.

"Sara, SCPD is heading your way. Get out."

"Roger," Sara confirmed and Oliver saw her run and jump onto a dumpster to get to the roof.

"What—" Donna Smoak-Lance started but stopped to simply point at the middle screen, showing Felicity by the doors, checking out the bombs.

"Felicity," Oliver's voice was full of warning. "SCPD is approaching. You need to get out of there."

She huffed—and Oliver knew the tales that sound told.

"I know you could disable them," he said, "but you don't have to. The way back is clear, the hostages can get out through there. Leave the bomb to SCPD."

He saw her hesitate.

Donna Smoak-Lance straightened up next to him. "Felicity Megan Smoak, listen to him! You will get out of there right _now_."

Oliver saw the Arrow freeze—and he was absolutely sure that, right in this second, his girlfriend was cursing herself for coming clean to her mother. With a jolt she turned around and marched toward the hostages. "Follow me," she ordered and, despite the modulator, Oliver could hear annoyance in her tone that was clearly directed at her mother. And probably at him. But mostly at her mother.

Walking past the hostages, Felicity noticed the crying boy, pulled up to his feet by the man next to him. Oliver saw the way she slowed her steps. "It's okay," she told the kid, not at all calming in her scrambled voice. "Don't cry. You're safe."

"You're the Arrow," the boy sniffled, then added as if it were a revelation, "You're a girl."

"I am. Both."

The boy nodded. "Cool."

The Arrow's mother chuckled next to Oliver and he bit back a smile. He kept his voice stern. "Felicity, get _out_ of there."

"This way," she addressed the group and finally—finally!—led the innocents out back before aiming another cable-arrow and shooting up to the roof, away from the people she had just saved and the approaching SCPD, led by none other than Quentin Lance, yelling at his colleagues for raising their weapons and reminding them of the innocent hostages.

"All done, all good," Sara stated.

"Yes," Felicity agreed. Sounding tense. "We're on our way back." She cut the connection and Oliver knew she was pissed.

Tentatively, he turned to Mrs. Smoak-Lance and was surprised to find her smiling. "That was…." She was visibly searching for the right word. She failed just as visibly. She met Oliver's eyes. "I feel like I should be more opposed to this whole thing than I am."

"I know the feeling," Oliver admitted. "Before I knew Felicity was the Arrow, she asked me to help her break into an encrypted security fob. She wouldn't tell me what she needed the information for and it was… dubious. But I did it anyway. Because I knew Felicity's a good person with a good heart."

His girlfriend's mother took him in with a calm and serious expression, the previous smile gone. She tipped her head to the side, her blonde locks falling from her face, studying him. Her piercing stare left him uncomfortable, longing to take the previous words back. Which were probably too personal to share with his boss. He uneasily cleared his throat. "Mrs. Smoak-Lance, I—"

"Oliver," she said evenly, "we're sitting in my daughter's secret lair surrounded by weapons and other stuff I don't get. We just compared models of different handguns. I watched you hack into two security systems. And you told me my daughter has a good heart. I think it's perfectly okay for you to call me Donna."

He blinked. He swallowed. "Okay."

"Good." She got up from the seat, looking around the Factory again. "Does Felicity really hit those tennis balls?"

"She does."

"My daughter…." She reached for one of the yellow balls, weighing it in her hand. He could see her thinking, contemplating things and once more Oliver was stunned how much mother and daughter had in common.

Giving her some privacy (because staring was impolite and if _his_ mother had drilled one thing into him, it was manners), Oliver turned back to his screens and busied himself with deleting the security tapes from the bank. He took even more time wiping the hard drive storing the feed of the traffic camera. Sara had worn a ski mask, but they didn't need the information that the Arrow worked with another woman to get out. Preserving Sara's identity was his priority. He had promised Felicity that and he knew how important it was to her.

The silence of the Factory was disturbed fifteen minutes later. Just the way Felicity ripped open the door leading to the alley gave away her state of mind. Oliver had been right: his girlfriend was pissed.

She stomped toward them and slammed the bow down onto the workbench with much less care than normal. "MOM." She ripped her hood back, revealing her dark-rimmed eyes to glare at her mother. "You _can't_ do that!"

"Felicity," Sara's eyes were sparkling with amusement. Her hair was tousled from wearing the ski mask. "Calm down."

"No!" She stepped toward her mother, mere feet away. "When it comes to this, I'm making my own decisions. _I_ am in charge. You don't call my name like that on the coms. You _middle-named_ me! What if somebody had hacked the—"

She cut herself off and glanced at Oliver. He made a show of crossing his arms over his chest, because if she dared to finish that sentence, his pissed girlfriend would seriously piss off her boyfriend. Nobody hacked Oliver Queen's com signal. That thought alone was laughable—and insulting.

Felicity visibly backtracked. "When you're in the Factory, you're not my mother. I mean, you _are_ are." Her lips pursed in annoyance, but she powered on, "But you don't get to act like it!"

"Okay."

The simple answer stunned everybody in the room—most of all Felicity. All anger (heightened by battle adrenaline) drained from her. "Okay?"

Donna pulled her daughter into a hug. She held her, saying nothing for quite a few seconds. "All of this is crazy," she finally whispered into her daughter's hair, but the bare walls of the Factory carried her voice, spreading it through the whole room. "But it works." She spoke louder. "I know you and Sara think that you're… bad people. But you're not." She let go of her daughter but kept her hands on her shoulders to glance at her stepdaughter, shuffling on her feet. "You are _good_ people," Donna said with her no-nonsense voice, stern and serious, delivered with a no-discussion glance. "Your dad and I raised you both to be good people."

Felicity opened her mouth to object, but her mother didn't let her start. "No. You always knew right from wrong, Felicity. Even before your time away. Back then you knew what you were doing was wrong. The drugs and the men and… the carelessness. You simply didn't _care_. There were moments when I didn't like how you acted. I always loved you, but there were times when…. You were lost and aimless. But this…" she gestured at the leather outfit her daughter wore, "this is purpose. You care about people, finally. You cared about the little boy in the bank. I'm proud of you, Felicity, more than I ever was. More than I ever thought I could be."

Donna looked at Sara again. "Both of you are good people. With good hearts." She gave a playful smirk. "And so badass."

A chuckle fell from Felicity's lips that was genuine while it still sounded like tension being released. Her voice was heavy with emotion. "Thanks, Mom."

Donna kissed Felicity's cheek and then reached for the tennis ball she had put on the med table. She raised a challenging eyebrow.

Felicity smirked, matching the challenge. Without saying another word, she moved to get her bow and the basket filled with yellow balls. Walking toward their shooting range behind Oliver's desk, she stopped next to him, tilting her head up to him. He touched his lips to hers for a soft kiss.

"Sorry," she breathed. "I was getting ready for the arrow-ing earlier and forgot about a proper hello."

He smiled. "It's okay." And it was. He knew what she was like when she was preparing for a mission. Greeting-pecks were the farthest thing from her mind in such moments.

"Thank you for looking out for me," she said, gently.

"Hey," Donna cut in, accusatory. "Why is he looking out for you and I'm overstepping vigilante boundaries?"

"Because the Arrow can't be told off by her mommy," Sara smirked, pulling her shirt over her head. "It's not good for her rep."

"Like you're the one to talk," Felicity shot back, getting in position next to her mother. "You might be a super-secret former spy-agent-hardass, but you're also the biggest daddy's girl known to modern man."

Watching Sara position herself under the salmon ladder, seeing Felicity draw her bow to nail a tennis ball to the wall with an arrow, hearing Donna comment on the dangers of meeting in a building that should be abandoned while throwing a tennis ball to the floor, Oliver felt a sudden shift in the atmosphere. There was a different air in the midst of all the familiarity, but he found that it came with positivity. It felt strangely right. _Yeah_ , he thought, _it shouldn't work, but it kind of does._


	17. My life My choice

Girls and guys, once again I have to thank you for your patience and overall awesomeness. Albi [all my love, my friend] and I are determined to get back to a more regular posting-schedule and we'll give our all not to make you wait so long anymore; promised.

As always, your amazing comments were bright rays of sunlight in the midst of everything. I can't thank you enough. Love, Jules

* * *

 **My life. My choice.**

Silence was overrated. Oliver had never been a person who needed quiet to think. Much the opposite, he enjoyed listening to music while coding. Foo Fighter's "In your honor" was his personal soundtrack to hacking Google—because everybody could take a hit at the NSA, but taking on Google took balls. Back then Optimal Prime had felt the need to prove he had those. (Isabel had just broken up with him; he had been in a weird mindset.)

Oliver always believed he would be able to concentrate through anything.

Turns out, the irregular rattling of the training dummy was Oliver Queen's concentration-breaking Kryptonite.

Behind him Sara Lance attacked the wooden dummy with determination. It sounded like she was ready to kick it off its foundation or at least rip off one of the wooden sticks protruding from it. The staccato of sound was relentless but so anti-rhythmic that Oliver couldn't get used to it. Annoyance collected inside him with each blow, each time he lost his train of thought. An especially hard kick, accompanied by an especially loud bang, made him flinch.

He shot around, swiveling his chair. "Sara!" Her name left his lips like an angry snap.

The woman froze mid-movement, her fist in the air on its way to the dummy. She tilted her head to him.

"I'm trying to hack SCPD for your father. And I can't think."

Sara smirked. "Trying to win points with your girlfriend's stepdad, huh?" Her arms dropped, the smirk dimmed. "I told you: you don't have to feel bad he freaked at you for seeing me in my sports bra. That's my dad for you."

Well, her dad was very intimidating.

Downloading the police files was a chance to do Quentin Lance a favor and Oliver had grabbed it with both hands. "He asked me to get information the Commissioner won't give him access to."

The smirk returned full force. "I thought you were a hacking genius. And the local police gives you trouble?"

"They wouldn't, if you gave me five minutes to think."

She quirked a challenging eyebrow at him. "Five minutes?"

Oliver met her gaze evenly. Sara Lance might be a fighting machine/ perfect shooter/ level-headed strategist, but Oliver Queen had once been Optimal Prime and her challenge wasn't even a challenge. He gave her a confident grin. "Four minutes."

The blonde woman stepped away from the dummy and brought her arm up to make a show out of pressing a button on her watch. "Four minutes, genius. Go."

Without hesitation, Oliver swiveled back to his computer screens. Now that the Factory lay in silence, Oliver could finally think—and instantly he saw the vulnerability in SCPD's system.

Three minutes and some change later he took his hands off the keyboard, exaggerating the movement. "Done."

"Impressive." Sara's statement was spoken casually but genuinely. She had moved next to him. The code on his monitor probably meant nothing to her, but she had watched as he'd hacked. Her eyes were still on the screen and the files Oliver had downloaded. "Is that information on a homicide?"

"Yeah," Oliver answered. "Somebody stabbed an old woman—"

"Twenty-eight times," Sara stated, nodding. "Yeah. Dad told me about it. He was on call that day." She pointed at the screen. "They labeled it as a random robbery? A random robber stabbing a stranger twenty-eight times is possible—if the guy is an asshole full of rage and prone to violence. But that's unlikely. Getting so close to somebody to kill her with that much aggression—that feels personal."

Oliver looked up at Sara and couldn't help but wonder if she had some sort of personal insight. But he knew better than to ask. Instead, he nodded. "I think your father agrees. He wants to review the facts." He studied her. "Do you want to have a look, too?"

"Yes." Betraying her answer, she took a backwards step away from the desk and added, "Later." Her eyes fixed Oliver. "Since you're done with your hacking I want to go back to my training." She gestured to the dummy. "Want to join me?"

"Join you?" He didn't understand until things suddenly clicked. "You want to train with me?"

"Felicity told me you started going to the gym. I think that's a smart choice. Knowing that you're working with us, I'll sleep a lot easier knowing that you can handle yourself. At least a little bit." She motioned to the dummy. "Interested?"

Oliver shot up from his seat, signaling that he was interested, more than interested. He had never dared to ask, never found the way to bring it up to Felicity, let alone her stepsister. That Sara was offering was entirely unexpected, but awesome.

Seeing the excitement in his face, Sara gave an amused nod and headed back to the dummy. Oliver followed her, zipping his hoodie open and dumping it on the med table. Sara's eyes dragged over him for a second, taking in his appearance (and probably reading the writing on his shirt— _I've got skills. They're multiplying_ —because you just had to read messages on t-shirts). She motioned for him to stand in front of the dummy. He did, turning sideways, his feet facing the dummy, his stance wide (like the fighters always do in _Dead or Alive_ ).

He felt good about his fighting stance until Sara, standing behind him, pressed against his back to make him crouch deeper and his shoulders bend a little more. "Better," she commented. "Okay, now. You're a tall guy. That means you have something both Felicity and I don't have: long reach. Use that." She motioned to the dummy. "Hit it."

He did. The wood gave a dull thud as his fist connected with it. A jab went through his hand. Ouch. That hurt.

"Okay," Sara said, unimpressed. "That sucked. Your skill's really multiplying."

Oliver sent her a glare, because—really—how was that supposed to be helpful? How was he supposed to just know how to throw a punch? He had never done that. His complete fighting knowledge came from watching movies and gaming. Pressing his lips together, he kept his flaring frustrations in.

Ignoring his glare and his obvious annoyance, Sara turned to assume a fighting position next to him. "Eyes on the dummy," she ordered and, putting her own words into action, she continued. "Bring your fist back, up to your chin." He mimicked her actions and she nodded. "When you move your arm forward you rotate your shoulder, your elbow's pointing outward. Your speed and your power's coming from your shoulder. Don't overextend your elbow." They both did it in slow motion a few times. Then Sara nodded again, jerking her head at the dummy. "Hit it again."

He did. This time the dummy rattled loudly on its foundation. Stunned, Oliver let his fist drop.

"Don't do that," Sara chided instantly. "If you drop your guard and your opponent's still standing, you're leaving yourself wide open."

Caught, Oliver raised his fist again. "Got 'cha." He took another jab at the dummy, enjoying the sound that was familiar but had never been created by him.

"What are you doing?"

Hearing Felicity's voice and the tension in her carefully enunciated question, Oliver shot around, startled. He hadn't heard her approach, hadn't expected her to pop up like that. His girlfriend stood behind him, arms crossed, glaring at Sara, who appeared entirely unimpressed.

"I'm teaching him some basics," Sara answered.

"He doesn't need to know basics. Or specifics."

"Yes, he does. He's working with us and he needs to know how to defend himself."

"Oh," Felicity's back straightened. "That's why you're teaching him _offensive_ -moves."

"It was a jab, Felicity." Annoyance crept into Sara's voice. "I'm teaching him how to jab without dislocating his arm, I'm not—"

"He doesn't need to learn how to fight," Felicity cut in, strict. "He'll stay in the Factory, where it's safe. I don't want him anywhere near a fight."

"He can—"

"Hey!" This time, it was Oliver cutting Sara off. " _He_ is standing right here."

Felicity sighed. "Oliver—"

"No. Not 'Oliver.' You don't get to talk about me as if I'm not right here. And you don't get to decide what I can and can't do. My life. My choice."

Felicity stared at him. "I…." She trailed off, looking caught. He could practically see her searching for words.

His objection and the strict tone he delivered it in had caught her off guard, he knew. He had managed to surprise himself at little, too. But she couldn't just make all decisions for him, boss him around like that.

He didn't have the slightest doubt that her insistence Oliver stay away from fights came from a good place. It was part of her way of caring for him. She always tried to protect him—whether from gossiping co-workers or judging one-percenters or mobsters threatening to crush his kneecaps. She looked out for him, and he appreciated her support. Oliver knew he wasn't a fighter. He knew that if anything ever happened (like maybe being faced with robbers on the street) his girlfriend, only reaching his shoulders, would be the one keeping him safe. He was fine with that. He didn't feel threatened by her fighting skills; they were part of who she was and he admired them.

But he needed the two of them to be equals in their decision-making. And he needed her to respect his decisions about his own life.

"Felicity," he said, sparing her from continuing her quest to find the right words, "I'm glad that Sara offered to teach me some things. I've been meaning to ask. I'd like to train with her, if she's up for it." He just put it out there, keeping it simple, knowing that neither he nor his girlfriend were comfortable discussing all the other, more complicated feelings attached in front of an audience—even if it was an audience of one stepsister.

"I'm up for it," Sara stated.

Felicity's lips pursed. "Fine," she said, sounding not really fine. "It's your decision." She squared her shoulders a little and gestured to Sara. "You've got a good trainer." Her eyes lingered on them for another second.

Oliver knew the last sentence was her peace offering, and all the acceptance she could offer him in this situation.

He nodded but Felicity was already turning around, heading toward his desk. Oliver's first thought was that she was bringing space between herself and the other two, but then he saw what had caught her attention.

The security feed showing the back alley entrance was displayed on the left one of the three screens—and showed a familiar blonde woman in front of the security panel. The sight made Oliver move instantly. Already hurrying toward the door, he called, "I'll let her in." The last word was barely past his lips when a loud horn boomed through the Factory. He groaned, stopped in frustration, and glanced at the ceiling, taking a deep breath.

Never would Mrs. Smoak-Lance—Donna! In the Factory he could call her Donna, he reminded himself. Calling Mrs. Smoak-Lance 'Donna' didn't come natural to him. At all.

He exhaled.

Never would _Donna_ memorize the twenty-four numbers of the security code. Now he had to override the implemented security protocol locking down the Factory. Like he had done every day since Mrs. … Donna had first come to the Factory the week before.

Returning to his desk and his keyboard, he heard Felicity's phone ring. She answered with a, "Mom. I told you to call me so I could pick you up. We can't have people follow you here."

Whatever Donna answered had Felicity rolling her eyes. Oliver ignored that and focused on lifting the lockdown. He was just pressing the enter key, resetting the system, as Felicity hung up. "Mom, wants us to meet her upstairs. She has a—and I'm quoting her—'brilliant idea' she wants to share with us."

"Oh," Sara stated from where she stood next to the training dummy. "That sounds dubious."

"Yeah," was all Felicity said to that, already heading toward the stairs.

Sara sent Oliver a quick wink that felt like unspoken support. "We'll train some more later," she stated casually and signaled him to follow her.

Upstairs, the bare empty industrial hall welcomed them, along with Donna Smoak-Lance, a smile on her face and her arms stretched out wide. She stood in a patch of sunlight created by the huge, open gate behind her, but not even the sun could chase the dank and cold atmosphere away: rusting metal and old concrete, forgotten machinery and faded warning signs, dirty windows dulling the rest of the light shining on dirt and dust.

"Mom," Felicity asked warily, "what did you want to show us?"

"Potential." Mrs.— Donna answered and, seeing the questions in the faces of the people standing opposite her, continued in explanation, "This building, its layout, and its location have the potential of a great club."

"A club," Felicity stated flatly.

"Yes," Donna said, her smile widening. "Felicity and Sara, you'll open a new club in the Glades."

"We will?" Felicity said, clearly not happy.

"You will." Donna answered, clearly very pleased with herself.

"No, we won't."

"Yes, you will. It's perfect. It'll conceal your base of operations, give us all reasons to come here without raising any suspicions. Nobody will question you two opening a club, given your history. And it'll also bring life back to this part of the Glades—but you won't have any neighbors to complain about noise. I told you, it's a brilliant idea."

Oliver had to admit, her logic seemed sound. But knowing the woman opposite him, as a CEO and as a mother, Oliver knew it was Mrs. Smoak-Lance talking more than Donna. Sure, she was trying to protect her daughter and her secret identity, but the reasoning was very analytical, very business-like. And as analytical as Felicity was, this was one of the times when logic wasn't helping. The way his girlfriend slightly drew up her shoulders, how she stilled, showed Oliver that perfectly. He suspected that, for Felicity, it wasn't about logic, keeping her secret, or helping the Glades at all.

"It's really smart, strategically speaking." Sara ended the silence. Instantly, she was pinned down by Felicity's disbelieving stare. Sara raised her hands in a calming manner. "I'm just saying: the reasoning is sound."

"I know." Donna's smile turned into a grin. "I told you it was a brilliant idea."

"We don't know anything about managing a club. I don't have time t—"

"Felicity," her mother said, dropping the grin, turning serious. "You're a Smoak. You're in the public eye, whether you want to be or not. And you need to figure out your place in society, because your life's more than what you're doing in the dark. I need you to think about who you want to be besides that. And until you do you'll use your former image to create a distraction."

Breathing deliberately, Felicity stood perfectly still, taking pointed interest in a spot on the opposite wall. The thought that his girlfriend had a pretty crappy afternoon popped up in Oliver's head. Between him and her mother calling her out, she had a lot to deal with and her avoiding everybody's eyes showed him that she was struggling.

Felicity knew how to handle physical conflict but personal conflict left her uneasy, insecure. Sometimes Oliver wondered if her reputation of being an easy-going party girl had ever been justified, but then he reminded himself of her five years away from people with good social skills, five years without trusting anybody, five years heightening her defenses and _making_ her believe that caring was a weakness. Plus: partying and being carefree didn't equal emotional connection or dealing with emotions and conflict in a mature way. She was still learning how to do the latter.

Whenever Oliver was alone with Felicity, her guard was down. She had gotten really good at taking his fears away and navigating his feelings and insecurities. Seeing her like this, struggling to deal with whatever her mother's words stirred in her, he suddenly realized that it was time he stepped up to help navigate _her_ worries and fears.

Sadly, he didn't know what to do or say in this situation, not with her mother and her best friend present. He sensed that right now she needed a moment of detachment. He felt like it wasn't his place to say anything. (Plus, maybe, he was a little afraid to enter a conflict that directly involved Felicity and Mrs. … Donna.)

"Felicity," Donna's voice was soft. "Tell me what the problem is." It was a gentle request. Oliver made a mental note of the strategy.

Still not meeting anybody's eyes, Felicity said, her voice quiet but firm, "I don't like the idea."

"Why not?"

"I'm not that person anymore."

"Feli—" Like a sigh the first two syllables of her daughter's name fell from Donna's lips, but she dropped off when Felicity's eyes snapped to her, the strict glare shutting the mother up.

"You said it yourself: I've changed. You didn't want people to think of me as that girl anymore but now you want me to feed that image again."

"Sweetie." A sad, knowing smile on her face, Donna took a step toward her daughter. "I know."

"I hate how I was."

It was a quiet confession, turning Oliver's heart heavy. He knew he had fed her self-loathing, as some of his insecurities had been founded in her past—even though she hadn't given him any reason to think of her that way. She was a brilliant, strong, capable woman who cared deeply. About her family, about him, about right and wrong, about what other people thought of her, about how her image affected those she loves. Her social awkwardness, which only popped up in moments when she let her guard down, when she cared too much, was founded in that. Which might explain where the image of the party girl came from and why she disliked it so much. Back then she hadn't cared.

"Yes," Donna stepped next to her daughter, reaching for her arm, a sad smile on her lips. "But I love how you _are_. All the people who know you love how you are. Plus, opening a club doesn't equal reckless partying. It's a business decision. Responsibility. It's also a smart move. And, Felicity, I know that you know."

"I do."

"I know it's a lot. I've asked Gerry and he's willing to help you get stared, explain the basics of bookkeeping and stuff."

Felicity hesitated briefly, then her eyes found Oliver's. He saw the question in them and smiled, encouragingly, supportively. He was good with math, bookkeeping probably wouldn't be much of a challenge, and he'd gladly help her get this going. Oliver couldn't help but feel like Donna was right: Felicity needed to know she was more than the Arrow, just like Oliver needed to be more than her tech support. The look in Felicity's eyes gave him the impression that Felicity grasped a basic idea of where his thoughts had taken him. A silent 'thank you' reached him before she turned to her stepsister.

Sara nodded. "I was undercover in a bar for two months. My margaritas are legendary. I'm absolutely in."

After another second of hesitation, Felicity sighed. "Okay. Let's do it."

Donna smiled. "I told you it—" She stopped talking when she noticed Felicity's back straightening, her hand fell from her arm. "What?"

Oliver saw his girlfriend snap into alertness and silence her mother with a quick flick of her hand, her muscles tightening, her shoulders squaring, making it seem like she was ready to pounce—and she probably was. He didn't have the slightest idea what had brought that shift on, there was nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing but the soft breeze brushing in through the open gate—and in the huge, empty room sounds carried perfectly. But something was most definitely up, because Sara's posture was changing, too. The blonde woman standing next to him didn't seem battle ready, but she tensed nevertheless.

Taking two steps toward the gate, Felicity positioned herself in front of the others. Oliver knew she was shielding Donna and him, another example of her protectiveness.

"Who's there?" Felicity's demand echoed through the hall.

The answer didn't come in the form of words. Instead, a woman stepped into view, saying nothing, not making any sound. The sun behind her turned her into nothing but a silhouette. She wore a coat and a hat with a broad brim turning the silhouette very distinctive. (It reminded Oliver of Carmen Sandiego, which didn't exactly fit the situation so he buried that inappropriate connection.)

The tension within Sara increased, Oliver could feel her nerves practically rolling off her.

The woman walked toward them, her movements elegant and slow. With each step she took into the hall she revealed more of her appearance, like that she wore all black: black buttoned up coat, black high heeled boots, black hat. (Even if her long, wavy hair was also black she didn't look like Carmen Sandiego anymore.)

"Who are you? What do you want?" Felicity questioned her sharply.

The woman gave a small smile. "I've had better greetings."

Her casual way of not answering fit her entrance. She seemed relaxed, not rattled by Felicity's tone or stance at all. She spoke calmly, in a soft voice that Oliver called dignified in his own head—probably because of the English accent.

Felicity, on the other hand, wasn't calm at all. "This greeting's about to get worse if you don't answer my question. Who. Are. You?"

The woman ignored Felicity; her whole attention focused on Sara. "I am Nyssa," she said. "I am here because I never got a goodbye." The clicking of her high-heeled boots dissolved as she stopped, leaving space between herself and the group, and silence settled over them.

All eyes landed on Sara.

Sara shifted her weight. Felicity's pointedly raised eyebrows accompanied by a questioning "Sara?" snapped her into alertness. Her chin raised high, she stepped forward. "It's okay. Nyssa was my handler at A.R.G.U.S."

"I was," Nyssa confirmed. There was an edge in her voice. Her posture lost some of its ease. "I heard about the attack and wanted to make sure you were all right. I see that you are and I understand this greeting. But I've really had better." She gave a sharp nod and said, pointedly. "Goodbye." She turned in a sharp twist.

"Nyssa." It wasn't quite a shout, but there was definite urgency in Sara's voice. "Wait."

The other woman stopped. Slowly she faced the others again. Sara sighed and, with her exhale, the guarded tension left her. It felt like resignation to Oliver until he heard her soft tone. "Guys. This is Nyssa. We met while working for A.R.G.U.S. She was…" Sara hesitated and started anew, making it sound like a question, "She is? … my girlfriend."

"I am." The raven-haired woman confirmed, her brown eyes sparkling with approval.

Felicity finally gave up her fighting-stance, stunned. "Oh."

Oliver was surprised, too. This development was entirely unexpected—at least to him. Sara had never mentioned that she was in a relationship… or that she was gay… or bisexual or whatever. While Oliver never expected Sara to share such personal information with him, he knew that not knowing something like that about her best friend/stepsister was rattling Felicity—as if this day hadn't been emotionally shaky enough for her.

Of course, it was Donna Smoak-Lance who gathered herself first, before the situation could slip completely into unbearable awkwardness. With a genuine smile she crossed the distance to Nyssa and offered her hand. "It's very nice to meet you. I'm Donna Smoak-Lance. I'm married to Sara's father."

"Very nice to meet you, too, ma'am." The women shook hands. "Nyssa Raatko."

Donna gestured to her daughter. "This is Felicity, my daughter. And her boyfriend Oliver."

Oliver came back to his senses, leaving behind the position of observing bystander he had retreated to, and went to the woman for his own handshake.

Another moment of silence followed. This time Nyssa ended it, placing her attention on her girlfriend. "We should talk."

"Yes, we should." Sara glanced at Felicity. "We'll talk later, too."

"Yes." Felicity's voice was hard, but she ticked the corners of her mouth upward in Nyssa's direction. It wasn't a real smile, but it was a gesture.

With one last nod, Sara and her girlfriend turned and walked toward the gate, leaving the other three to watch them go. Only after the couple was most definitely out of earshot did Donna speak up. "Quentin won't like this. His daughter dating an A.R.G.U.S. agent won't exactly mix well with his plan to keep Sara away from that organization." She thought for a second and, when she continued, she sounded like the CEO Oliver had met multiple times in a glass office. "Next Wednesday our family dinner will be the Smoak-Lances plus their plus ones." She fixed Oliver. "I expect you to be there."

"Of course," he hurried to say. "Thank you for the invitation."

Donna nodded, pleased. "I'm full of brilliant ideas today."

Felicity huffed. Oliver couldn't help but agree.

* * *

Exhaustion weighed Felicity down. With heavy steps as she walked from her bike to the door leading to Oliver's apartment building.

She wasn't exhausted physically. The run-in with the Bratvas hadn't done much to tire her out. She had shut down one of their brothels, filled with girls and women kept there against their will, rendered the guards and johns unconscious or tied them up. The whole thing hadn't taken more than ten minutes, but she had called it a night afterward. As good as it had felt to hit something and finally feel confident in a situation, she had promised Oliver she wouldn't take on more than the low-security brothel tonight.

He had insisted on that when she had insisted that he accepted his friend's spontaneous invite for game night. Apparently, John Diggle had an evening off from war and Oliver deserved the same. Since Sara was off with Nyssa, the girlfriend Felicity had never even heard of, Oliver hadn't wanted her to take on too much—not after the day she'd had.

That was the reason for this emotional exhaustion. It made her thoughts slow, turned her limbs into lead. She wanted to just stop moving, to hide somewhere and be done with this day. Part of Felicity longed to drive to Smoak Mansion and hole up in her room, but she didn't want to send Oliver the wrong message.

Since her first night at Oliver's, she had stayed at his place pretty often. She liked the small apartment. It was warm and cozy and so very _him_. She saw him in those rooms, in the few framed pictures showing his family and friends (there were a lot of pictures of him and his sister, which told Felicity a lot of things she liked). She saw him in the books piled on shelves and stacked on his bedroom floor (books on coding and computer stuff, about technic and history, but also novels). She saw him in the little details like the magnets on his fridge with math jokes (she didn't get any of them), the Mulder and Scully Bobbleheads, and the trash can in the kitchen that looked like R2-D2. (Oliver had told her the name of the Star Wars robot and Felicity had memorized it, like she memorized everything.)

All of that, even the stuff completely foreign to Felicity, had started to feel like home. It was a little weird and probably too fast, but sleeping in Oliver's bed and arms felt right, like it had to be this way. Still, standing in front of his apartment building, ringing the doorbell (because she was a normal girlfriend and not some weirdo who came in through the window or anything), she knew that entering the homey apartment tonight would mean apologizing and having a difficult conversation.

Oliver was right. She couldn't tell him what to do, couldn't make his decisions for him. She had to tell him that. And she had to make him understand that hitting a wooden dummy without injuring himself didn't equal him going into the field. Because that wasn't happening. Ever.

The door buzzed. Annoyance flared within Felicity as she pressed the door open. He hadn't even used the speaker to make sure it was really her. He had to be more careful about stuff like that.

The elevator ride up didn't calm her either. She walked down the hall to his apartment with fast and heavy steps—until she rounded the corner. Seeing him leaning in his doorframe, greeting her with one of his gentle smiles she loved so much, the aggravation fled from her, slowing and softening her.

"Hey," he greeted.

"Hi," she answered and took the last steps toward him, already reaching for his face. She kissed him, needing the closeness, the connection after keeping her distance this afternoon after the thing with the training and with her mother stirring up her embarrassing past and with Sara's girlfriend showing up. It was a tender touch of their lips, lasting longer than a little greeting peck. When their lips parted, their eyes met and it took another long second until Oliver smiled and stepped backward. "I've made pasta. I figured you haven't eaten anything."

Passing the threshold (and the " _Speak friend and enter_ " doormat), Felicity felt the worry slip off her. The complete Oliver-ness of the apartment surrounded her, as well as the delicious smell of dinner. "I haven't," she admitted and watched him close the door. "I didn't know you can cook… more complicated stuff than scrambled eggs, I mean."

"Growing up I had to take care of my sister while my mom worked."

Of course. A wave of affection surged through her and she just looked at him, not knowing what to say.

He tilted his head, studying her. "Did everything go as planned?"

"It did." She gestured to the dark TV screen. "Are you already done gaming?"

"Digg had to cancel because of some last minute mission—and Myron had to work late. So, I cooked instead."

"Their loss. My gain." She hesitated before continuing. "I have to apologize for—"

"No."

She blinked. "No?"

"No, you don't have to apologize. I know you had a… a rough day. And I know what you want to say."

"Oh?" she challenged crossing her arms over her chest. "You do? And what is that?"

"That you're sorry for bossing me around and that you understand that I make my own decisions, but that you have to keep me safe and you're not okay with me doing field work."

Her arms fell to her sides.

He smirked, lifting his eyebrow in silent triumph.

She cleared her throat. "Yes. I stand very firm on that."

"I know." He moved closer to her, bringing his hands to her shoulders. "Do you want to talk about what happened with your mother?"

"No."

"About Sara?"

"No." Unsure, she glanced up at him. "Is that okay?"

"Sure."

Another affectionate surge flooded through her and she got on her tiptoes to kiss him. She meant for it to be a little peck, but Oliver's arms wrapped around her, pulling her closer to him, deepening the kiss. She melted in his arms, folded into his body, bringing her arms around his shoulders, because—damn—that was a good kiss. His kisses were always amazing, but this one had an intensity she had never felt from him before. It was demanding in a way she hadn't experienced—and she was only just realizing how seriously she had missed out before. Her whole world reduced to him, to his tongue dancing around hers, his right arm wrapping round her, his right hand resting on her left shoulder blade, holding her close while the other slipped down the curve of her back. She felt him against her, for the first time truly aware how much taller he was, how his embrace encompassed her and how safe it felt to be here, in his arms. This was new, a whole new sensation that made her fist his shirt, warmth shooting through her, collecting in her stomach.

A sigh escaped her as his mouth closed around her lower lip, sucking gently. Lazily her eyes opened, finding his own darkened and set on her.

"What about your cooking?" Why was she asking that? Her brain must've gone to mush. She didn't care about eating. Her breathless tone proved that. His kiss had stolen her breath and that was fine. She preferred kissing him to breathing. It was the best way to go.

A smile played around his lips she couldn't quite place. He looked amused and reached for her again. "It tastes better reheated anyway."

He brought his mouth to hers as she mumbled, "What about the oven?"

"It's off," he answered, a playful twinkle in his eyes. That was also new. "Talking about _off_." He let go of her and reached for the collar of her coat. She was still wearing her coat, she realized, as if only then coming back to her senses. That thing needed to go. Quickly. She let go of him and shrugged the coat off her shoulders. He took it from her, threw it onto the couch without looking, and went in for another one of those breathtaking kisses.

Her hands slipped under his t-shirt, fingertips trailing over his skin from the front to the back while his own wandered down to cup her ass. Her fingers tightened instantly, her touch losing its lightness, growing more demanding. Suddenly, passion leaped within her, fueled by his obvious arousal. She moaned against his lips, pressing up at him, feeling him hard against her, and all of that was a wordless signal to both.

They let go of each other to rip their respective t-shirts over their heads. Letting the clothes drop to the ground, their eyes met. His were darkened by desire behind his glasses. God, he had such pretty eyes. Always. But they looked even better with that expression in them. His breathing was heavy, labored, his chest rising and falling, his lips were slightly opened. They just begged to be nibbled, sucked, kissed, anything. He reached for her just as she reached for him. They crashed together, seeking contact, skin connection.

He kissed down her jaw, to her throat, on to her neck. She leaned her head back and sighed, enjoying the sensation of his lips on her skin, of his teeth teasing her, of his stubble as he made his way down, his hands fumbling with the hook of her bra. She also felt the edge of his glasses against her skin. She liked his glasses, they suited him, made him Oliver, but right now they were in the way. She was probably also smudging them, which wasn't very sexy.

His chuckle brought her down from the highs her head had retreated to. "What?"

He straightened up again and reached for his glasses, taking them off and placing them on the kitchen counter. "There," he said, "out of the way."

She could feel her already pretty warm face heat even more—for different reasons this time. "I said that out loud?"

"You did. And, apparently, you prefer kissing me to breathing." He smiled, fondly. "Guess I'm doing something right."

"Yeah!" The word slipped past her lips with conviction. "Everything," she added. "You're doing everything right. Keep doing that."

He chuckled once more and slid the bra straps down her shoulders, letting it drop to the floor. He kissed her again, their naked chests connecting, and then he started moving, directing her backward, toward the adjoining bedroom. There was a sureness in his movements that was unfamiliar. The nerves had disappeared after their first time. His awkwardness had vanished, but he had still let her lead the way when it came to sex, set the pace.

This was him taking over.

She'd let him call the shots when it came to this forever, if these were the results. Whatever had finally given him the confidence deserved some kind of award.

As did his hands, actually. They moved with confidence and aim, stripping her of her clothes, undressing himself with ease, cupping her breasts, playing with her nipples, rolling them between her fingers, sliding up her leg and placing it over his shoulder as he kneeled in front of her. And then he brought his lips to her center and…. _Oh_ , she had been wrong before. His mouth deserved the biggest award. And his tongue—with an honorable mention of his nose and….

A moan escaped from deep within her throat, mixing with a chuckle she felt more than heard coming from between her legs. Maybe she had said that out loud again. She didn't care. She was way past caring about anything other than Oliver. She reached for him, pulled him up, and crashed her lips to his shortly. Letting go of him, she looked up at him, finding lust that matched her own. This was nice and everything and she was actually close, but she didn't want to come like this. She wanted to feel him, be with him completely.

"Bed," she breathed, pointing at it—because they were still standing next to it, which didn't make any sense. With a smirk he got onto the mattress, reaching for the nightstand to get a condom. Joining him in bed, she took it from him and unwrapped it while he rested on his back, pumping himself in his hand. Settling down next to him, she gently took him in her hand before bending down, placing a kiss on the tip. He sighed; she felt him twitch.

"Felicity." His coated voice told her he was as impatient as she was, so scratch repaying the oral favors. She needed him. With skilled hands she slipped the condom into place and positioned herself above him, her legs bracketing him. His hands flew to her hips, guiding her as she sank down on him.

Having him inside her was still new, feeling him so perfectly nestled inside her. She sighed and started rocking against him. A moan escaped her, because—damn—this was amazing. His hands closed around her hips and he thrust up to match her movements and her pleasure surged. This time she was aware that she was talking; his name fell from her lips in urgent desire; his hands grabbed her hips in earnest.

"Felicity, look at me." His voice was hoarse, darker than usual, but it was a clear order. Her eyes snapped open—she hadn't realized how tightly she had squeezed them shut. Seeing the craving in his, the raw lust made her own desire flare. Her movements turned more forceful, quicker. "God," he breathed and this time she wasn't sure if he was aware he was actually forming words, "you're gorgeous."

They moved in sync, their skin rubbing together perfectly. Pleasure grew inside her, turning her movements more frantic, until, suddenly, one hard thrust of him caused the pleasure to spike. Bliss spilled through her, her eyes fluttered shut, her breath hitched in her throat and she was reduced to a bundle of pulsing nerves as he continued to pump himself into her, heightening the sensation. Taking a deep breath, she came back to the moment and found the ability to move again. She met his thrusts, opening her eyes. He was staring up at her, an engrossed smile playing around his lips. His eyes met hers for a second before his gaze slipped deeper to where they were connected, where he was moving in and out.

With a guttural groan he reached for her, his hand resting on her neck pulled her down to him, changing the angle. She brought her lips to his neck, kissing his skin while his hands again moved to her hips to hold her as he thrust into her, quicker, more desperately.

Feeling him break within her was perfect. It made her shudder against him, loving the sensation of his muscles flexing, of him fluttering inside her, feeling his heavy breathing brush her ear and his heavy heartbeat underneath her lips on his neck. He sucked air into his lungs and she moved so that she rested on his chest, looking into his face, soft and content with satisfaction. His left arm circled around her lower back. His right hand came to her face to gently brush her wild hair back. She couldn't help but smile at him. Thank God she had never honestly contemplated hiding at the mansion. There couldn't be a better place than in his arms.


	18. And you love her

It's been way too long, I know. I'm really sorry for the long wait; life snug up on me. Despite the month-long silence on my end, I won't abandon this story. Albi and I are determined to finish it—and I hope you're still interested [because I, personally, feel like we're finally getting to the good part. ;) ]

Thank you all very much for your comments. I really appreciate the time you took to send me a message. Thank you!

Love, Jules

PS. **Albiona** is forever my unicorn of awesome.

* * *

 **And you love her**

Felicity hated the salmon ladder.

Sure, it was an effective workout, engaging practically every upper body muscle at the same time. Going up and down basically meant doing push-ups and sit-ups and planks and side planks and bridge marches all at once. It was efficient, but strangely monotone. Felicity was at it for fifteen minutes—and she had had _enough_. With one last jerk of her muscles, she ripped the rod out of the top holdings. Her feet hit the ground with a dull thud. As the sound dissolved in the underground room, Felicity wondered how Sara could do this exercise for an hour.

As if on cue Felicity heard Oliver's security system click, the signal that somebody had entered the security code. It had to be Sara. (Her mother would never memorize the twenty-four digits and Oliver and Quentin were at work.) Slowly, still holding the metal rod of the salmon ladder, she walked past Oliver's desk and the med table toward the training area.

Sara's black heavy boots didn't make the slightest sound as she rounded the stacked training targets. She stopped as soon as she was fully in view. "Hey," she greeted quietly.

"Hi." Felicity stood next to the training mats, arms hanging by her sides, her back straight, her head held high. "You're alone."

"I didn't think you'd approve of me bringing Nyssa."

"Good thought," Felicity complimented flatly. She tilted her chin upward a little. "Even though she probably knows everything anyway." She wasn't kidding herself into a false sense of secrecy or security. The A.R.G.U.S. agent had been upstairs yesterday, right above their secret hideout.

"Not from me," Sara stressed, seemingly aware of her friend's thoughts.

That was good to know, and Felicity didn't doubt her stepsister for one second, but that didn't change the basic facts. "She's a handler from a super-shady organization that specializes on fact-gathering. I'm absolutely sure she knows that I have a dinner date to eat reheated pasta with Oliver tonight."

"Felicity," Sara sighed. "I should've told you I'm dating a girl. I'm sorry I didn't. That just isn't a very easy thing to tell your family. Coming ou—"

"Stop!" Felicity needed Sara to shut up immediately. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. Felicity could only gawk at her friend in disbelief. Disappointment and confusion and compassion and anger (because when was that ever _not_ in the mix) swirled into a strange emotional cocktail. The expression in Sara's eyes betraying her uncertainty, while she visibly steeled herself to defend her lifestyle choices, made Felicity find her voice back.

"I don't care about Nyssa's gender—and you should know that," Felicity knew her reproachful tone wasn't helping the situation but couldn't stop it. "This isn't about you being in a relationship with a female—this is about you being in a _relationship_ without telling me. And I wonder why you didn't tell me. Just because she's a she or because she's from A.R.G.U.S.? How healthy can it be, dating your handler? And you did leave her without saying goodbye. That's hardly—"

"I didn't say goodbye because I love her."

That shut Felicity up. Perfectly.

She blinked, feeling strangely chided and called out, and slightly embarrassed for not even considering that possibility. Her mouth closed, the tension in her shoulders easing. Her hand loosened its grip on the salmon ladder rod. Her eyes studied her childhood friend closely.

Sara avoided the searching gaze by looking down, once again shielding herself with a curtain of hair. She shifted her weight, confessing, "Saying goodbye would've been too hard."

Felicity blinked and then cleared her throat, successfully chasing all hints of accusation out of her voice. "You love her?"

"I do. I never expected that to happen. But it did."

Her shoulders slumping with a sudden disappointment, Felicity asked, "Then, seriously: why didn't you tell me? She means so much to you and you just… never mentioned her."

Finally, Sara dared to look up again. "Because you're right. She's from A.R.G.U.S., she was my handler. She was the one who told me that Waller was thinking about implanting a bomb in my spine—and I just _ran_. I ran away from there—and from her. I'm not good with caring that much. I'm not like you. And you and I had so much heavy stuff to talk about already that I didn't want to add something that's irrelevant to our situation."

"How can your girlfriend by irrelevant?"

"I thought she was my ex."

"I think that's an excuse."

The women glared at each other for a few seconds until Sara faltered. "I don't know if I'm… worthy of love. And seeing you with Oliver…. I kept my doubts about being with somebody that way to myself. I feel like I don't deserve love."

"Oh, Sara." It was all that came to Felicity. Her mind was empty, void of any fittingly encouraging thing to tell her stepsister. Her mother would know what to say. She had told Felicity and Sara so many times that they deserved good things, that they were good, lovable people.

Donna Smoak-Lance could make that believable because she believed it.

Felicity didn't know if she could say all that with the same conviction because she didn't know if she was convinced herself.

So she just chose to go for honesty and a shrug. "Well, I love you. Whether you deserve it or not, I can't help it."

Sara swallowed heavily but said nothing.

Felicity gestured toward her friend. "And Nyssa. She came to check on you. Seems like she believes you're worthy of her attention." Felicity smiled gently. "And you love her."

"I do." A smile of joy and sadness danced around Sara's lips. "I'm sorry for not telling you about Nyssa sooner. I didn't mean to hurt you. You know I… love you, too."

A smile broke across Felicity's face. Then she nodded, forcing her smile to dim. "I know this whole honesty-vow is my thing, not yours. But you're my best friend and you're my family now. I'd like to believe that you trust me with your personal stuff."

"I do." Slowly, Sara walked to the training mats, crossing the distance to her stepsister. "We've been through so much together. We've saved each other's lives many times. There's nobody I trust more than you—okay, maybe my dad…. But apart from meeting Nyssa, nothing good happened in the last five years. Working for A.R.G.U.S. was…. It made me…." She searched for words and failed to find the right ones.

Felicity spared her, because, "I know." She pointed at herself. "Triad member, remember? Believe me, I know about dysfunctional working environments."

"Yeah." The weakest smile danced around Sara's lips. "Of course you do."

Felicity stepped onto the mats. "Up to spar?"

Thankfulness and relief wavered around Sara. "Sure," she shrugged off her leather jacket, and Felicity finally let go of the salmon ladder rod, dropping it in the basket with the Escrima sticks and the jump ropes.

"You know," Felicity said, moving into position opposite the woman she'd known since kindergarten, "I should've known you're into girls, after what happened with that exchange student from France."

"Colette," Sara sighed, a sound of happy reminiscence. "Yeah, I had the biggest crush."

"Makes your kissing practice with Helena feel very different in hindsight, too." Felicity smirked. "Apparently, you have a thing for brunettes."

"Apparently." Sara took a fighting stance and motioned for her friend to come at her. "Why aren't you more freaked out?"

"Why should I be?" Felicity moved quickly, spun on her left leg, and brought her right foot toward her stepsister's head. "Love's love."

Sara redirected the kick coming at her. "Yeah, it is."

Felicity caught herself before stumbling. "Plus: I'm with a guy who's into π-jokes. Tell that to my twenty-year-old self."

Sara frowned, going back into a fighting stance. "Pie?"

"π. The math thing. You know with the… circle? Or… something?" She groaned. "God, I feel like I should know that."

Sara smirked. "Luckily, geometry isn't a basic skill needed for vigilantism. Plus," within the blink of an eye she threw a punch at Felicity. "Oliver's a good guy."

Felicity ducked. "He is." Crouching, stretching her leg out, she twirled, trying to sweep Sara's legs from under her. "I bought a shirt today that reads ' _Talk nerdy to me.'_ Love makes you do crazy things."

Sara jumped up, avoiding Felicity's leg. "So, you love Oliver?"

"I…." Felicity froze. Her eyes snapped up to Sara from her crouching position. All words escaped her, she straightened up again.

Knowingly, Sara nodded. "Could be worse. You could be in love with a trained killer whose knife-throwing technique is flawless and who still works for the organization you left without permission."

Bringing her arms up in the last second, Felicity shielded herself from Sara's punches. "Okay, you should really think of a different way to introduce her tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"Yeah, during the family dinner my mother planned." Felicity scissor-kicked with a jump toward Sara. "With our partners. To introduce Nyssa to your dad."

The sole of Felicity's foot connected with Sara's chest, throwing her back and onto the mat. In shock, Sara stared up at her friend. "Oh my God. That's the worst idea ever."

Felicity smirked. "My mom very much disagrees."

* * *

The Chinese, Russian, and Italian mafia had an Arrow-free Wednesday night because Felicity Smoak had to be on time for a family dinner.

She had promised to be at the mansion at seven, sharp. Sara was nervous about the first meeting between Quentin Lance and Nyssa Raatko.

Felicity had swallowed all hints that Sara had every chance in the past two days to introduce those two in a less formal setting but chose not to take it. Such commentary wasn't exactly helpful (or smart considering Sara's state of mind) and Felicity knew that, for once, she had to be the supportive one, the calming influence. After all, her boyfriend had already met the family and been accepted.

Felicity Smoak—whose track record of failing small talk was _epic_ —was determined to help her stepsister through the evening without self-destructing. (That sentence was ambiguous but correct either way: both Sara and Felicity were in great danger of self-destructing due to nervous emotional overload.)

Punctuality felt like the first but easiest hurdle to giving the evening a smooth start. Felicity had every intention of keeping her promise to be on time.

Of course, today had to be one of those days when Oliver lost himself in his work.

Whatever the breakthrough keeping him from noticing the time was, Oliver and his ACSD colleagues were in the middle of a heated discussion bordering on overexcited celebration when Felicity entered the department. She hadn't planned on going up there, but after waiting for fifteen minutes (five minutes longer than the obligatory ten-minute delay Oliver Queen always came with), she decided to dare something she had avoided before: enter her boyfriend's workplace.

Felicity Smoak was the daughter of the founding CEO, the daughter of the current CEO. Her last name was spelled out in gigantic red letters across the side of the skyscraper. Bringing all _that_ to Oliver's department had always felt like… not the best idea.

Tonight Felicity had to bring herself and everything that came with her—and Oliver didn't have anybody to blame but himself (and his tendency to zone out entirely when hacking… coding… doing his computer stuff. As much as Felicity envied his ability to focus like that, mostly she wished he wouldn't forget about his surroundings completely. It just wasn't safe to get that much into his own head). Debating whether to introduce herself with or without her last name and the information that she was Oliver's girlfriend (normally, she'd assume that people knew, but she was familiar with the effects of the computer sciences bubble), Felicity Smoak rang at the door of the locked department on the twenty-fifth floor. (It had a security panel that made the words '256-bit encryption' flash in front of her inner eye.)

Her worries of leaving Oliver, his supervisor, or his colleagues uncomfortable had been unfounded. Apparently, the breakthrough was so big that everything else paled in comparison.

Was Felicity relieved that her entrance left everybody cold? Very much so. Was she also a little disappointed that her entrance left everybody cold? Just a little. The littlest little.

The only one reacting heatedly to her sudden appearance at the ACSD was Oliver, scrambling to move, suddenly noticing time, the pointed look his girlfriend sent him, and the tone in her voice when she told him they couldn't be _late_.

Felicity spent the next five minutes talking…. No. Felicity spent the next five minutes _listening_ to Oliver's supervisor. Harold Adler used a lot of words she had never heard before to explain why his team was so excited while Oliver disappeared into the restroom to change. Oliver had insisted that this family dinner called for him to wear the tailor-made suit her mother had gotten for him. He had also insisted they'd take his Mustang to Smoak Mansion.

In the garage, Felicity insisted that he break some speed limits, because they really needed to be _on time_.

They arrived at Smoak Mansion five minutes late.

Sara and Nyssa were already waiting in front of the house when Oliver steered his car up the driveway. The glare Sara pinned them down with seemed to burn through the glass of the windshield. It definitely had an effect on Oliver, who stepped on the brakes hard, moving quickly to turn off the engine and unfasten his seatbelt. "I'll take the blame," Oliver hurried to say. "I'll tell Sara it's my fault," he promised and sent Felicity an apologetic glance while opening the door.

The realization that even a very smart man could have very stupid ideas washed through Felicity as she reached for the handle of the passenger's door. The wind had barely time to ruffle her styled hair before Sara's voice carried over, filled with accusation, "You promised to be on time!"

Sara's eyes drilled into Felicity as she walked with Oliver by her side toward the couple waiting at the foot of the steps. The glare lost its impact with each step Felicity took toward her stepsister. The closer she got, the more insecurity became visible. Sara's anger was rooted in nerves, not in fury. The snappiness was her attempt to mask her unease, to release some of the tension inside her. Attacking as a defensive tactic felt very Sara.

Knowing what it was like to be out of your comfort zone and dreading the results, Felicity swallowed the comment that the door was _right there_ ; nobody had forced Sara to wait for them. Instead, she raised her hands, calming, apologetic, "I know. I'm sorry." Sensing that Oliver was about to keep his promise and in the process poke the bear that Sara could become in her current state of mind, she hurried to add, "Traffic."

Taking the last steps, she held her hand out to Sara's girlfriend. Knowing how important the woman was to her childhood friend, Felicity needed to make up for their first horrible meeting. "Hello," she greeted with a smile she hoped was polite, even warm. "I'm Felicity."

Nyssa shook her hand. "I know," she spoke measuredly, her tone friendly, open and welcoming, as if she, like Felicity, was giving everything to make this go well. "I'm Nyssa. It's nice to finally meet you. Sara told me a lot about you."

"Yes. It's nice to meet you. I've heard about you, too." Seeing Nyssa quirk an eyebrow at the last comment, a jerk went through Felicity. "All good, of course," she hurried to specify and somehow her mouth kept moving. "Knife-throwing—that's a special skill. I never quite got the hang of it myself. Knives. Shouldn't play with those…." She closed her eyes, horrified at herself. Oliver's hand settled on her lower back, its weight and warmth calming and centering her. She made herself face the other woman again. "Sorry. I'm a little out of my element."

"Yes," Nyssa agreed, staying ramrod straight. "So am I. Sara told me I couldn't bring my knives."

An amused snort escaped Oliver but didn't register with Felicity. She was busy staring at the black-haired woman, trying to figure out with that sentence meant. Oh, she understood the words, but not their intention. Nyssa had said them casually, there wasn't any hostility, aggression, or accusation. In fact, there was so little emotion in her voice that Felicity wondered if she had maybe offended Nyssa. She couldn't really decipher what was happening here. Was this passive-aggressiveness directed at her? Had she managed to mess the evening up in the first minute? The safest thing, Felicity decided, was to simply apologize.

Before she could, Sara exaggerated rolling her eyes. "Nyssa, nobody gets your jokes." She looked at Felicity. "She was joking. I've warned her about your mouth getting away from you."

"You did?" Felicity's eyes snapped from Sara to Nyssa. "You were?"

"I was," the black-haired woman confirmed. "Sarcasm. A lot people don't get it."

"Only your sarcasm," Sara softened the sentence by taking her girlfriend's hand, an affectionate smile playing around her lips.

Warmth spread within Felicity. Seeing her stepsister like this was unfamiliar but wonderful, hopeful. The thought made Felicity seek Oliver's hand. Plucking his right hand from her back, she placed her left in his. He stood next to her, tall, silent, and calming in his grounded presence, giving her hand a slight squeeze. "Okay," he said addressing the females around him. "Are we ready to do this?"

Only in that moment did Sara seem to fully register him. She blinked. "You're wearing a suit." Her observation sounded strangely accusing. "Why are you wearing a suit?"

"Because this is a 'meet the parents' situation," Oliver stated calmly.

"You've already met the parents," Sara shot back. "You met Donna before Felicity."

"Yes, but…." Oliver trailed off and with that his calm slipped. Felicity could feel insecurities take over in a flash just from the way his body tensed. His eyes landed on her. "Am I overdressed?"

Felicity might not be the most socially adept person, but she was pretty sure that Sara's complaint wasn't about anybody's outfit but her own. Sara was dressed as she always was—jeans, shirt, leather-jacket, and boots—when everybody else had taken time to dress up a little bit. Felicity wore another colorful dress (purple this time) and Nyssa looked effortlessly stunning in a simple, black dress. Felicity knew that worrying about clothing was better than worrying about everything else, but it felt strange, coming from Sara. Still, right now Felicity's main concern was her boyfriend.

"No," Felicity stated with emphasis, leaving no room for doubt. Now it was her tightening her hand around his in a comforting gesture. "You look very handsome. Don't worry." Felicity brought her free, right hand up to his chest, smoothing the soft fabric with gentle fingers, her turquoise nail polish popping against the gray cloth. "As my mom always says: a man can never go wrong with a good suit. And that's a _good_ suit." Oliver's answer was a thankful smile. Felicity returned it.

During the exchange Sara and Nyssa shared a long and loaded look, Felicity noticed. Deciding that they had stalled enough, Felicity stated, "Okay, time to go in." Her hand tightly around Oliver's, she looked at Sara, digging her brain for something resembling a pep talk. "We've already had the worst-case-scenario dinner. Comparatively, this is a piece of cake."

"Right," Sara said, not sounding entirely sure, but she straightened up, giving up her uneasy stance. "Lead the way."

Once Felicity opened the door of Smoak Mansion, the smell of food welcomed them. Entering first, Felicity called out, "Hey! Sorry we're late."

"It's fine." To Felicity's surprise, her mother's voice came softly from the left. The kitchen with its casual atmosphere and the huge dining table was straight head; to the left lay official rooms with a more representative and somewhat stiff air. Her suspicion was confirmed when Donna added, "We're in the sitting room."

"God," Sara whispered, "they want to do 'the talk.' If they overdo it, we're out of here." She gestured to herself and the woman by her side.

"Calm down," Felicity whispered back, needing her level-headed partner to keep her head levelled. "It's gonna be fine." She reached for Oliver's hand and led the way through the hall.

"I'm sorry," she stated, passing the threshold of the sitting room, "traffic wa—"

Her voice died with a pathetic whimper. Her blood froze along with her body. Two steps inside the room, her mouth still opened to form a word never completed, her eyes locked on a sight that couldn't be real. Her brain told her so in a panicked mantra, chanting relentlessly: _He can't be here. He can't be here. He can't be here. He can't be here._

"There's the miracle we were just talking about," Donna said in her perfectly measured official CEO voice, tightening her eyes slightly at her daughter and her weird reaction. "My daughter Felicity. And my husband's daughter Sara. They have their own plan to support the Glades." Donna winked and gestured to the man sitting on the huge couch opposite to her and Quentin. "Felicity, Sara, meet the newest supporter of our Glades Foundation. Mr. Slade Wilson."

He _was_ here.

Slade Wilson was here, sitting on the huge couch with the floral décor, smiling at her in pleased confidence, when he should be _dead_ , taken out by an arrow she had driven into his eye—plus an explosion and being stuck underwater.

Apparently, all she had taken was his eye—if the eyepatch was any indication.

He placed his one eye on her and if Felicity hadn't been frozen by shock she would have shuddered under his gaze. "Miss Smoak, Miss Lance. It's a pleasure to meet you—finally."

The voice, its dark rich tone sounding like cigarettes and tequila: the accent, the vowels chewed out between barely parted teeth, the barely there intonation—it all drove the realization home: he was here, feeling superior and in-charge.

Coming back to her senses, shaking the shock off, Felicity let go of Oliver's hand and took another step forward, positioning herself in front of the others, shielding Oliver's body, even though she knew she didn't stand a chance if Slade Wilson wanted her out of the way. Feeling Sara move next to her, Felicity found her voice back. She was relieved to hear it wasn't wavering when she demanded, hard, "What are you doing here?"

Her eyes were glued to the man sitting on the couch, observing his every move, expecting him to strike any second. Instead, she saw something flash in his eyes. It came and went with the blink of an eye, but Felicity recognized surprise. She took another step forward. "You don't belong here!"

"Felicity," Donna half-asked, half-chided while her husband got up from the couch.

Warily, Quentin spared the standing women a short glance before focusing back on the bulky Australian on his sofa. "How do you know each other?"

"We met on the island." Felicity pressed the last word out through tight lips, hoping the information was enough for everybody to understand the seriousness of the situation. Breaths hitched collectively all over the room.

"Dad," Sara said carefully, taking position next to Felicity. "Donna, you need to come over here."

With a sigh sounding like inconvenience, Slade Wilson brought his hands to his knees and pushed himself off the couch. Tension crowded the room, created an atmosphere of a silent countdown, of a room filling with gasoline—and everybody knew, if anybody would be lighting a match, it was Slade Wilson. The man was a predator, a weapon that was part tank part nuke, and he terrified Felicity. Slade Wilson was in the same room as everyone she held dear and he could wipe them all out with one hand, without breaking a sweat, and there wasn't anything she could do to stop him.

"This isn't the reunion I pictured," Slade confessed. He didn't seem too unhappy about the change of plans. "But if you insist on turning this ugly immediately, I am happy to comply."

Quentin reached for Donna's arm, slowly pulling her up to him, making her get off the couch.

"Please," Slade said, looking at the spouses, "stay seated. I'm only here to talk." Quentin's pull on Donna's arm didn't loosen. "Okay," Slade stated, calmly. "This calls for a demonstration." He bent his knees and reached for the couch behind him. Lifting it up as if it weighed nothing, balancing the sofa on his flat hand, he smiled a humorless smile and pinned the parents down with a cold stare. "I said, _sit_."

Slowly, holding on to each other, Donna and Quentin sank back down.

"Slade," Felicity dared to take another step forward, needing to be his first target to give the others time to escape—or at least to try. "They have nothing to do with this. Let them go."

His eye snapped to her, a fire burning in it that reminded her of the madness that had taken root in the man. A sudden yell ripped from Slade's lips. The heavy sofa flew through the air, hitting the wall to their left—and crashing through it. Felicity didn't even spare it a glance. Her sole focus was on the man, the scientific experiment gone wrong. He met her gaze, spitting, "They have everything to do with this! I'm here to keep my promise, kiddo."

Felicity's blood turned cold while her heart drummed in her chest. Regret started to fill her as she realized that she had given Slade Wilson the upper hand. She should have played along, should have acted as if she didn't know him, made sure the people she loved got out, got to safety. The need to protect those she cared about had made her act too impulsively—again.

Fighting to keep the doubt hidden, she held Slade's gaze, taking comfort in Sara's presence next to her, in the fact that Nyssa had moved, too. Behind her back, she had felt the A.R.G.U.S. agent step in front of Oliver. But her parents were out in the open, nearly in arm's reach of an inhumanly strong madman. It was better to play along, Felicity realized, to keep Slade talking in hopes that an opportunity presented itself.

"So, you told your parents about the island," Slade observed, sounding calm again. "I didn't expect that. But, obviously, you didn't tell them about me."

"There was no need," Felicity said, harshly. "You were _dead_."

"What? Because of that toothpick you rammed into my eye?" He shook his head at her apparently disappointing gullibility. "Kiddo, I always told you: I'm not that easy to kill."

He had told her that—back then it had been a comforting quip. Back then Felicity had been glad that Slade had survived the confrontation with Fryers. Back then Slade Wilson had oozed safety and protection in a dangerous environment. He had been a person to look up to, to turn to, to follow. He had been the first to teach her basic survival. Him not being easy to kill had been a good thing. Now it was nothing but a threat.

"That's okay. Because so are we."

Sara's statement, deadly calm, hung in the air. It was a bold move, a clear challenge. Felicity was surprised, but she knew that Sara had never been one to back down. She was also way better at bluffing and keeping her emotions at bay. She was stepping up, stepping in, because she was in the middle of this confrontation, even though Slade's hatred had found its focus on Felicity. A deep, unbridgeable rift separated the women from Slade, and Sara speaking up sent a clear message: she wouldn't stand by idle this time. It was them against him. Felicity appreciated Sara's support, but she wished she'd be mindful of Slade's temper and the mortal danger he posed to those around him.

The corners of Slade's mouth ticked upward. The gesture didn't hold any humor. "Good thing I'm not here to kill _you_."

Felicity felt the threat in her bones. It sent a thrill through her, but she forced herself stay in position, willed her voice to stay calm. "Slade, don't—"

"I take it you didn't tell them about Yao either," Slade cut her off in a nearly conversational tone. "Or Shado. When you still wear her hood."

"I'm honoring their memory."

"No. You're _shitting_ on their memory."

It would've been better if he had yelled. Felicity was pretty sure that Slade letting his rage out would've been easier to handle than his calm way of talking. She made herself stay just as calm, but only barely managed. "I don't think you're—"

"Does your boyfriend know?" Slade's gaze wandered past Felicity, heating her previously cold blood. "Did you tell him that you killed your last boyfriend?"

"You know that's not what happened," Felicity pressed out. "You know Ivo killed Yao."

"Ivo might've pulled the trigger, but _you_ chose. You chose to save _her_." He spat the last word, glaring at Sara. His hateful eye turned to Felicity again. "Admit it. Admit that you had him killed."

"No," Felicity snapped. "I didn't want either of them to die. That's why I jumped in front of the gun. I wanted to take that bullet."

"Lies!" Slade snarled. "You never loved him. You used him for your own pleasure, for your archery lessons. He cared for you to honor his mother, continuing what Shado started. You took him from me. He was like my own _son_."

There wasn't anything she could say that would made Slade see reason. He was way past rationality. Showing compassion, explaining, asking for forgiveness—nothing would work with this man. He wanted nothing but his revenge. She made himself meet his eye. "Fine. What do you want to do now?"

"I told you, kiddo. I'm here to fulfill the promise I gave you." He smirked humorlessly. "Not right now, of course. But I want you to know that it's coming. You ripped my family away from me—and I'll return the favor. Mommy and Daddy, boyfriend, girlfriend. I'll take them from you, one by one, until only you two are left."

"You don't—" Quentin shot up from the couch, but Slade's hand shoved him back. It looked like a tiny motion, but it made the detective practically fly backward, crash against the couch with such force that it tipped over, making Donna tumble back and onto the floor, too.

Felicity and Sara both took a step forward, but one wave of Slade's hand halted them. "There's nothing you can do to stop me," he told them. "And you know it. Not one of you is on par with my power. Knives won't hurt me." He huffed, sparing one glance at Oliver, "And I'm not afraid of a messily thrown jab. Take the next few days to say goodbye." He straightened the impeccable suit he wore. Donna and Quentin held onto each other as they got off the floor.

With casual, confident steps he headed toward the door. Nyssa pushed Oliver backward with one arm, guiding him out of harm's way so Sara and Felicity could let the man pass. Slade Wilson stopped next to Felicity, turning his head to stare at her with his one, dark eye. "I'll show you true devastation," her confided. Then, to the others, he said, "It's been a pleasure to meet all of you." He turned around and locked his gaze with Nyssa and Oliver. "We'll see each other soon."


	19. Where are we going?

Again, I'm sorry for the long wait. I blame life—again. But I'm delighted that I managed to surprise you with Slade and that it was a positive surprise. I hope you'll enjoy this next chapter, too.

As always a loving shout-out to **Albiona** , because she's helping me to see this through.

Happy reading!

* * *

 **Where are we going?**

The cold wind felt soothing on her heated face. Standing in front of Smoak Mansion, Sara next to her, watching Slade Wilson steer his black sports car down the driveway, Felicity concentrated on the breeze floating around her, brushing past her naked legs, billowing the skirt of her purple dress, making her long blonde hair, styled for an evening of family bonding, flow around her. She focused on the silence of the evening, a moment of eerie calm that she knew was just an illusion.

Slade's car passed the gate, pulled out into the street, and disappeared from her view. He was gone but the tension, fear, and paranoia he had brought with him were still there. The weight that had settled in Felicity's chest and slowed her thinking made breathing seem harder, like a constant threat ready to overwhelm her any second. But she couldn't let that happen; she _wouldn't_.

Slade had come to her home to get into her head.

His mission hadn't failed.

Felicity couldn't deny it; he was in there, taking over her thoughts. He had planted a desponding fear deep within her, but she'd be damned if she just rolled over and took it.

She turned to Sara. Her stepsister had kept the calm façade up much better than she had, but now Sara's hands were shaking visibly. Felicity heard movement from her right. The others were coming, most likely bringing questions, along with demands for explanation. But Felicity couldn't do that right now, she couldn't dive into all of that, face the people who were in danger because of her. She couldn't even begin to imagine what they were thinking after everything they'd heard, how they were thinking and feeling about her. All of that might make her crack. She couldn't; she _wouldn't._ She needed to do something, take charge. She needed to get them somewhere safe. She needed time to finally _think_.

"The Factory's compromised," Sara stated, as if following Felicity's line of thought.

"I know." Slade's hint at Oliver's messy jab had told Felicity the same thing. But she wasn't sure if that had been a slip-up or deliberate. Did he want them to stay away from the Factory? Did he want them to get somewhere where they didn't have access to all of their equipment?

"Sweetie…." Something was shaking her mother's voice. Felicity didn't know what that was, what kind of emotion, but she knew she couldn't acknowledge it. Not now, when she needed to keep her own emotions in check.

Ignoring Donna, ignoring all the people coming down the stairs to group around Sara and her, Felicity focused on her partner, "We need to regroup."

"Yes," Sara's eyes were glued to her stepsister. "My safehouse's out of town."

"Mine's in Starling."

"'Kay. We split up. We do this like we did Monaco."

Goosebumps broke out along Felicity's arms, the visible reaction to the shiver racing down her spine. A whole new set of worries gripped her alongside understanding. "Like Monaco," Felicity repeated.

"What are you talking about?" Quentin tried to gain the women's attention—and failed.

The stepsisters continued to acknowledge only each other. Felicity took comfort in the shared connection, in their planning, in knowing that she and Sara understood one another perfectly. "We split up. Don't look back." Felicity's eyes drilled into Sara. "Like Monaco, but without the 'schrooms."

"Yeah," Sara said carefully, narrowing her eyes slightly before something flashed in them. "There's only one place perfect for 'schrooming anyway."

"Exactly," Felicity dared the barest smile, relieved. It only lasted a second. "We got this," she urged, emphasizing each word.

"We got this," Sara repeated in the same tone.

They spent another long moment cementing their silent understanding and turned to the others.

"Oliver, Mom, you're with me."

"Dad, Nyss—"

"What?" Quentin's question cut his daughter off. He looked flabbergasted. "No!" His eyes ping-ponged between his daughter and his stepdaughter. "You two stop it this instant and tell me what's going on here!"

"We'll get you someplace safe," Sara said. "Dad, let us handle this."

Quentin's arm circled around Donna. "I won't—"

"Yes, you will," Sara took a step toward her father, her strained nerves, about to snap.

Felicity's hand closed around Sara's wrist, stopping her from saying anything else (and maybe rendering her dad unconscious to end the debate). "Quentin," she pleaded with her stepdad, "please, you have to trust us. We will keep you safe."

A loaded silence followed. Quentin stared at Felicity, at Sara, at Donna. The spouses exchanged a long look. Finally, Quentin nodded, ended it. He reached for his wife and kissed her, an air of desperation around him.

Only then did Felicity dare to look at Oliver. Since letting go of Oliver's hand and positioning herself in front of him, she had placed her sole attention on Slade Wilson, pointedly ignoring her boyfriend, the feelings and fears he brought. He was in danger, more than anybody else, because he was with her. The thought held the potential to make Felicity spontaneously self-destruct. She couldn't go there or she'd be useless. She couldn't acknowledge that Oliver had heard every single one of Slade's accusations. She knew Oliver better than to believe he'd place blame on her without hearing her side of the story, but the idea of telling the story made her insides turn. There was so much danger and darkness in his life—and she was the sole origin of it all.

She swallowed heavily, unable to hide from him the emotional turmoil raging inside her, and met his eyes. They were serious, questioning, but filled with so much warmth that she had to swallow again. "I'll keep you safe," she promised, repeating the one thing that echoed through her, the one purpose she had reduced her actions to.

He nodded. "I know."

She swallowed again, his calm trust a bit overwhelming. She held her hand out. "I'll drive."

Wordlessly, Oliver dug in his pocket and let the keys to his Mustang drop into her palm.

Quentin and Donna finally let go of each other. Donna took another moment to hug Sara tightly. Quentin placed his hand on Felicity's shoulder. She gave him a nod that was equal parts promise and gratitude.

Walking backward toward the garage, her eyes connected with Felicity's, Sara ordered, "Let's move, people."

Felicity nodded once more, then she turned around and headed to the Mustang. Oliver climbed into the back, folding his legs to his chest to get into it. Donna slid into the passenger's seat. She had barely closed the door when Felicity stepped on the gas. She was already past the gate when Sara backed Quentin's Ford out of the garage.

Felicity turned the corner and focused on the street ahead, accelerating quickly. A heavy silence filled the car. Oliver staying quiet didn't surprise Felicity. He always knew when she needed time to think, time to order her thoughts and strategize. He was amazing like that. But her mother wasn't the type to just sit back and wait. From her, silence was worrying.

Taking her eyes of the road to glance at her mother, she asked, "Are you okay?"

"No," Donna huffed in fake amusement. "I'm really not okay. Thanks for asking." She shifted in the leather seat. "I don't understand what's going on—and I don't know the best thing to do. But I believe that you do so, I'll follow your lead. But… please, tell me what we're doing next, because I need to know to prepare myself."

"Okay," Felicity breathed, accepting her mother's request, relieved that Donna was successfully keeping her composure. Inhaling, steeling herself, Felicity tried to exude nothing but confidence and competence. "First, we'll ditch all our electronics. Everything that can be used to track us needs to go." Her eyes met Oliver's in the rear-view mirror. "I'm sorry." She exhaled measuredly. "It's also possible that the car is bugged and there might be a tracking-device. I'm not sure."

"Bugged as in…." Donna's mouth snapped shut. She dug into the pocket of her red jacket, got out her phone, and glanced back at Oliver. "Is it enough to turn it off?"

"No," Oliver scooted forward, his elbows on the backs of the front seats. "Turn it off and toss it out of the window. Here," he held his phone out to her, "this, too. Felicity, where's yours?"

Taking one hand off the steering wheel, she dug into the pocket of her coat and gave her phone to her mother.

The faint sound of expensive smartphones hitting hard cement was nearly drowned out by the wind speeding past. Being inconspicuous with a black Mustang wasn't really an option anyway, so Felicity had decided she'd rather be fast than careful. She was racing through an intersection when Oliver said, "Donna, could you open the glove box, please?"

The hatch flapped down to reveal a tablet. Without asking any further, Donna handed it to him. He sank back and started tapping away.

Felicity glanced at her mother once more and placed her right hand on Donna's arm. "Five minutes, okay?"

Donna nodded, silently, glancing around as if she might spot trackers or listening devices. Once more, silence fell over them, only disturbed by Oliver's fingers flying over the tablet. Seven minutes later, Donna straightened up, rising a questioning eyebrow at her daughter. Felicity nodded, confirming that that was indeed their destination. "Do you have your keycard?"

"No. It's at home, in my purse." She gestured to the glove compartment. "But Oliver has his." She turned back to glare at him. "Which is against company regulations, by the way. What if your car got stolen?"

Oliver blinked, looking up from his tablet. "I'm… sorry?"

"You should be," Donna chided, opening the glove compartment again, handing the plastic card with Oliver's picture on it to Felicity. They pulled to a stop in front of the yellow bar marking the entrance to Smoak International's underground garage. One card-swipe later, Felicity steered the Mustang into the next free parking spot and signaled for everybody to get out. She locked the car and handed the keys back to Oliver, noticing that he was still holding on to his tablet. "I'm sorry, but you need to—"

"I disabled the GPS chip. It can't be tracked. I promise you."

Felicity wanted to believe him, but, "Somebody bugged the Factory." Her safe place had never been safe, despite all the security protocols he had installed.

He stared at her, first dumbfounded, then guiltily. "I never checked for bugs. But they must've been there before I upgraded the system. They couldn't have entered after. They…. I…." His voice held a certain hurt. "I'll leave the tablet if you want, but I am one hundred percent certain that it's safe."

Slade Wilson brought out the worst in Felicity Smoak, the absolute worst. She trusted Oliver; she believed in Oliver; he had never given her a reason to doubt her, and she couldn't start now, when she needed to focus. Oliver was her boyfriend, but he was also her partner, her confidant, an expert in his own field. She needed to trust he did his part so that she could concentrate on hers. She stepped to him and kissed him. A quick, soft peck was all she allowed herself, but she needed that brief connection. Meeting his eyes, she said, "You got this."

He nodded, relieved and thankful. He visibly gathered himself. "Okay. What now? Want me to disable the cameras?"

She blinked up at him. "Yes," she said, stunned. "That'd be great." She stepped back and he placed his attention on his tablet. Not even one minute later he said, "Done."

"Perfect. That spared us a walk through the sewer. Okay, let's get a new car. One whose GPS and stuff you can disable."

"My Mustang doesn't have GPS," Oliver reminded. Felicity ignored him and looked around.

"Oh," Donna gushed from beside her, "that one's cute."

Five minutes later, a red Mini left the underground garage of Smoak International.

"You were right," Oliver said. "My car was bugged. I hacked into the frequency. I'm running a trace on it now, but it's not active anymore." He glanced up from the tablet and turned in his seat to face Felicity.

Donna had insisted that Oliver sat in the front, claiming that he, with his long legs, couldn't cram into the back. So, instead, Donna Smoak-Lance sat with her legs folded awkwardly across the seat behind Felicity, a look of worry on her face. "Do you think he also bugged Quentin's Ford?"

"Most likely," Felicity mumbled.

"I just hope they're okay."

"We'll know soon. They'll come to my safe house."

"What?" Donna leaned forward in her seat. "But you said…."

"We weren't sure if there were cameras at the Mansion, too. Maybe he accessed the security system," Felicity explained. "Slade mentioned Oliver's training and Nyssa's knife-thing so we knew he'd been spying on us."

That information was answered with silence, hanging heavy in the small car. Oliver ended it, "So," he asked, "where are we going?"

"The abandoned clock tower downtown." Uncomfortable, Felicity's hand tightened on the steering wheel. "It has pretty mosaic windows. They're nice to look at."

"Let me guess, they are especially nice to look at while _'shrooming_." Donna barely kept from rolling her eyes. "Never thought that phase of your life would ever come in handy."

Oliver ignored them, asking, "And what did you two do in Monaco? I thought you didn't meet again after the island."

"Monaco was before that. We… bought coke from an undercover cop and had to make a run for it."

"Felicity!" Donna gasped.

"I _know_."

"Well, you must've outrun him, because this is the first I'm hearing about it."

"Yeah, Sara and I ran, but got separated somehow. By accident. The cop couldn't chase us both and he had to divide his attention and… we lost him and met in our suite later."

"That's the plan?" Oliver asked. "Split, distract Wilson, and meet at the clock tower?"

"Yes," Felicity confirmed, fighting against the urge to drive faster and attract unwanted attention. "We need time, someplace safe to regroup. We have to make sure he doesn't know where we are. Where _you_ are."

"Who is that man?" Donna asked, placing her hand on her daughter's shoulder. "What—"

"Fuck it." The curse came from deep within Felicity. "Fasten your seatbelts."

Oliver and Donna ignored the order, busy twisting in their seats to look out the rear window. Five men on motorcycles were behind them, the roaring of their engines turning louder as they came closer and closer.

"I _said_ : fasten. Your. Seatbelts!" Felicity ordered, shifting down. The engine protested with a whine, but then the Mini jerked forward, her passengers thrown back in their seats, fumbling to finally strap in.

"How did they find us?" Oliver asked in a half-shout over the sound of the engine accelerating. Felicity ignored him and placed her whole attention on shifting through the gears, using the Mini's full potential. She sped down a street, but the men on their bikes drew closer. Scanning the road ahead, Felicity shifted down again, hands and feet working quickly. The engine complained with an aggressive screech, but the car slowed down instantly as Felicity tore the wheel around. The car drifted to the right and shot forward again with one press of Felicity's foot, speeding down a narrow alley between two buildings, only wide enough for the Mini Cooper.

"The frequency is active again," Oliver informed them, sounding angry. "We must have a tracking device on us." He pressed his lips together. "I was sure I disabled the GPS. I'll toss it." He was already lowering his window, when Felicity stopped him. "No. Mom," she said, quickly, not looking anywhere but through the windshield, holding on to the steering wheel as the car shot across a bigger street and into another alley. "Did Slade touch you? Maybe your shoulder or your arm when he greeted you?"

"Oh, that's how you ninja-spies do that?" Donna was already opening the zipper of her red jacket, handing it to Oliver who patted the cloth. He groaned nearly instantly. "Underneath the lapel." He glanced at Donna quickly, muttered a "sorry," and threw the jacket of the window. He checked the tablet. "The frequency is offline again. The GPS of the Mini is thoroughly dead." Felicity felt him look at her while she dared to glance into the rearview mirror. "Do you have a computer at your safe house?"

"Yes," she forced out, annoyed that the bikes had once again caught up with her.

"57.21," he said. "Memorize those numbers: 57.21." Not waiting for her reaction, Oliver chucked the tablet through the gap in the window. It crashed against the wall next to them. "Better safe than sorry," he stated, closing the window.

"Sweetie," Donna said, carefully. "I don't think we can drive faster than motorcycles."

"Yeah," Felicity said, "good point." She shifted gears again and pulled the car right, around a tight corner. The back of the Mini swerved. Felicity steadied it and sped up once more. As planned, she was on Pucket Street. One lane in each direction, minimal traffic, perfect.

"Felicity," Oliver sounded strained, "they're catching up."

"I know," Felicity confirmed calmly, checking the rearview mirror. Two bikes were right behind her, plus one on each side. "Like mom said; bikes are faster than we are." Next to her side window, a black helmet became visible. "But they're still just bikes. Hold on!" With that, Felicity threw the steering wheel around, pulling the handbrake. Another angry roar sounded as the back of the Mini jerked. Felicity steered against it and, in the next moment, they were spinning, screeching, turning in a near-perfect circle marked by the black trails of their wheels.

The front of the Mini hit the first bike, sending the driver crashing to the ground. The other four followed. Spinning 360 degrees, the Mini knocked them down one by one. Each collision vibrated through the car. The sound of metal scratching was all around, accompanied by red sparks as the bikes slid over the asphalt. Once the car completed its turn, Felicity slammed her foot down on the breaks, bringing it to a full stop, sending Oliver and her mom forward to be caught by their seatbelts. Her action surprised the one remaining biker, who acted instinctively to avoid crashing into the trunk. He threw the handlebars around—and slammed into a huge metal dumpster with a nearly deafening thud.

Felicity slammed into first gear and pressed the gas pedal to the floor, drifting around the next corner, her tires leaving dark lines behind. Pulling into the traffic of Main Street, she slowed the car back down to the speed limit.

"Wow," Donna breathed. "Just… wow."

Felicity loosed her grip on the steering wheel, daring a quick glance at both her passengers. "Are you okay?"

Oliver rubbed his chest where the seatbelt had hit but nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"I think I'm a little car sick," Donna said, leaning her head back.

"I think we lost them." Felicity glanced at the rearview mirror and noticed that her comment hadn't done much to calm the two people on the run with her. Digging her brain for something light to say, she turned to her boyfriend. "Aren't you glad your Mustang's safe at SI?" Oliver's only answer was a nod and Felicity's mouth kept moving, "I must say, I like the Mini. It handles well. Turns out size…." She bit her lip, willing herself to stop talking, keeping in all her words and the proof that she wasn't as cool as she needed the others to believe her to be. Her hands tightened around the steering wheel as she caught herself and her wandering thoughts. "We'll leave the car and walk the rest," she decided. "I'll park at the opera. The car will blend in there." She glanced into the rearview mirror. "Are we sure all tracking devices are gone?"

"I checked my clothes," Donna said. "I think I'm good."

"I'm…." Patting down the cloth of his suit, Oliver's hands moved carefully. "I think I'm good. He didn't touch me."

The huge white building with the decadent pillars and show-off-y stucco appeared on their right. Felicity steered the red Mini onto the adjoining parking lot and chose a spot between two other cars. The Mini was pretty roughed up, dented front and back, scratched all over. All of that was suspicious and noticeable—as if the car being bright red wasn't flashy enough. They had to get away from here, quick.

"Come on," Felicity urged and started walking across the parking lot. "The first rule of being on the run is: don't run." She motioned for the others to follow her lead, walking quickly, but not too hurriedly. "There are cameras in front of the opera. Look at me, I'm telling you something important. You're interested in what I'm saying. We're just three normal people walking, talking, and not looking at the security camera in the process. Good. You're doing really good."

"Felicity," Donna stated, dead-serious. "I know we're in danger and that's bad. But this is really _exciting_." A huge grin split her face and made her look slightly crazy, given the circumstances.

"Glad you're enjoying yourself, Mom." Felicity reached for Oliver's hand, needing the contact. "We'll go right and cross the street. Don't hurry. Check the traffic."

Oliver cradled her hand in his; it was cold and clammy. Felicity gave it a slight squeeze, trying to send him silent reassurance while scanning her surroundings. Her mouth moved on its own, giving her mother and her boyfriend instructions as if it were casual conversation. Nobody seemed to be following them. Nobody seemed to pay overly close attention to them. Felicity knew where every security camera was—and she knew their blind spots, because this was her escape route, this was the way to her safe house and she had trained for a quick getaway. Of course, she had always been alone then. She had never considered a worse case than her worst case scenario.

Pushing those thoughts back, Felicity kept moving, directing the others, observing her surroundings. She had to ignore the knowledge that Sara was making her way here, too, because it brought nothing but worry. Sara didn't know the safest way to the clock tower. Maybe she hadn't found all the tracking devices. Maybe all their escape was doing was cramming them into one tiny place for Slade to target at once. Felicity wished she had a better plan, but she didn't. She had nothing but the obligation to make sure the people she loved didn't pay for her sins.

The old church, abandoned when some rich guy paid for a bigger, better one to be built in Starling's most prestigious neighborhood, came into view. "We cross the street here and go into that alley over there," she told the others, who had fallen quiet. Felicity led them to a timber fence and went to a specific board, unremarkable next to all the other boards. Reaching for its bottom, she lifted. The adjoining boards lifted as well, creating an entrance. "Move," she ordered. Her mother climbed in first, a little awkward in her pencil skirt and stilettos. Oliver followed. Looking around one last time, Felicity made sure nobody was paying attention. The wood didn't make the slightest sound when she re-placed the boards behind herself.

"Does Sara know about that entrance?" Donna whispered as she walked next to Felicity toward the door that looked like it was thoroughly boarded up.

"She'll figure something out," her daughter assured her.

"I'm just asking because I don't think Quentin can climb that fence. I love him, but he isn't the fittest. The doctor said his blood pressure was a little high and his heart—"

Felicity slid the panel in front of the entrance to the side. "Mom, Quentin's fine. Sara's looking after him…. And Nyssa. I don't know her, but she's an A.R.G.U.S. agent—and apparently good with knives. He has two very capable people looking after him. They're gonna make sure he gets here. Safe. I'm absolutely sure of that."

Donna nodded, accepting the words without seeming much calmed by them.

Her daughter couldn't blame her, but she didn't have any more comfort to offer. Felicity kept her voice soft, trying to show her mother that she shared her worries and felt sympathetic, but couldn't act on them. "Maybe they're here already." She motioned for the others to get in. "Watch your step. There isn't a light. Take the stairs to the top."

Felicity waited until first Oliver, then her mother reached the steps. She slid the board back into position. Darkness surrounded her. Using the wall, she made her way to the stairs. The sounds of three people—two of them wearing heels—heading up old wooden stairs plus Donna's increasingly heavy breathing were the only sounds. Felicity noticed that Oliver's fitness had really improved, his breathing didn't become labored until they were nearly to the top.

Once there, Felicity slammed the hatch shut, sliding a swiveling hook into place, locking the entrance. She turned to look at her mother and her boyfriend, standing next to each other, watching her. Nobody else was in the room.

"They're not here yet," Donna observed, unnecessarily.

"They will be," Felicity answered, not daring to consider any other possibility. She took a deep breath and repeated, not knowing whom she wanted to convince more, her mother or herself. "They _will_ be."

They _had to_ be.


	20. It's a long story

It took me forever—again. I apologize—again. I hope you enjoy the chapter despite the delay [and I hope you still remember where we left off].  
 **  
Albiona,** thank you for helping me with that brilliant brain of yours. You make me better. **  
**  
Happy reading. Love, Jules

* * *

 **It's a long story**

It was a close-up moment. The urgency in Felicity's voice, the way her eyes drilled into her mother as she pressed out the words, "They _will_ be." In movies that would call for a close-up of Felicity's face looking… tense, _in_ tense.

Oliver didn't know where the thought came from. It wasn't exactly reasonable or helpful, but he couldn't help but feel like he was living a movie moment. He had seen stuff like that unfold on the big and the small screen—but such things didn't happen to _him_. It couldn't be real, speeding across town, fleeing from danger, adrenaline drowning out the fear that was still tugging at the edge of his consciousness. It so felt surreal.

Really, this shouldn't be his reality.

But it was.

The close-up-worthy expression on Felicity's face, the way her words hung in the air drove the knowledge home. They were in danger. A madman with super-strength had come after them with a vengeance, because the guy was… mad… at Felicity. The details were a little fuzzy. Oliver thought he knew the gist, but there were still a lot of open questions.

The way Felicity measured her breathing, the tension in her shoulders, and the intensity in her eyes told Oliver that now wasn't the right time to ask any of them. His girlfriend needed a moment, and he needed to give her what she needed.

He looked around the squared room they stood in, high up at the top of the clock tower. Each of the four walls contained a round stained glass window. The colorful pieces formed Latin numbers, circling the window, creating the clock face. The hands on the outside stood still, rooted at ten minutes to five, which was only logical since the clock tower didn't house any gears or machinery. The room was bare apart from a metal trunk and a sleeping bag. The colored glass let the city glow in, creating a much more peaceful and beautiful atmosphere than was fitting their current situation.

Oliver turned to Felicity, still standing by the hatch she had just shut. "You have a computer?"

His voice snapped her back to the present. "Yes." She walked to the trunk, entered the number combination, and opened its lid.

Oliver stepped closer. The trunk was crammed with stuff. Oliver saw clothes and wigs. As Felicity dug through the contents, he saw guns, bows, and a green suit that looked like the one back at the Factory. He saw different currencies stacked in bundles and a pile of what looked like passports held by a rubber band.

His girlfriend could become somebody else within moments and vanish.

The thought hit him suddenly, unprepared, sending a cold shiver through him.

"Wow," Donna breathed from Oliver's side, "that's very James Bond."

"I was thinking _The Bourne Identity_."

The words left Oliver's lips before he could stop them. Looking down at his crouching girlfriend, he told himself that Bourne was a better comparison. The original Bourne, Matt Damon's Bourne, had let that German girl in on his secrets, just like Felicity had invited him into her vigilante work, and now her safe house. She trusted him; there wasn't a better way to show him that. Oliver should do the same. He _did_. He trusted her. He believed that she wouldn't disappear into the night wearing a black wig and a fake name.

Felicity—probably oblivious to Oliver's line of thought—ignored both of them and instead retrieved a laptop from the bottom of the trunk. "Here," she handed it to Oliver. "It's never been on the internet. I hope it'll do."

"Let me have a look." He lifted its lid.

"I also have burner phones." Felicity said, rising. "In case you need them for… whatever. And I know you'll chide me, but the laptop's password is 141."

He didn't lecture her for using a three digit security pin, because this wasn't the time to discuss something they had already thoroughly discussed (as in: he had talked and she had listened—or, apparently, _not_ listened), but he did send her a pointed look. She couldn't be serious about choosing the same three digit security pin she had originally used in the Factory.

"Oh," Donna's voice quivered with emotion. "You still use that code?"

Felicity nodded and Oliver's pointed glare faltered. His vigilante-girlfriend was such a huge softie, placing meaning to the littlest thing and throwing all strategy and caution into the wind for it. Whatever that number meant, it was important to both Smoak women and Oliver couldn't be angry at Felicity for that.

He placed his attention back on the laptop and entered the code. The desktop appeared quickly, showing the standard Windows backdrop because Felicity Smoak didn't care about personalizing hard- or software. But it had power. That was good. Glancing up at Felicity, he said, "Let me have one of the burner phones. Maybe I can access this area's security cameras with it."

"God," Donna breathed. "My grandkids will be genius ninja babies." Her eyes snapped between the two other people. "I'll babysit anytime. I can handle smart ninjas."

Oliver felt his face heat and, unable to come up with a single appropriate reaction, simply took the box with the phone Felicity held out to him and sat down on the floor with his back to a wall. Avoiding the two women, he stared at the screen and accessed the system searching for the safest way to enter the dark net.

He focused on that, acting as if Donna's last statement hadn't happened. It was too outrageous to even acknowledge. Felicity and he weren't there yet—actually, they weren't anywhere close to approaching that, not with a ten-foot pole. Their relationship wasn't anywhere near babies—whether they were smart ninjas or babbling Trekkies.

Right now, they were in danger due to reasons he didn't entirely grasp because his babbling ninja hadn't confided in him yet. Right now, the adrenaline was starting to wear off, and he was all over the place, and he needed to concentrate on doing his part to get them out of this mess. Once they were someplace safe, or safer, he could freak out about his girlfriend's mother talking about _babies_.

But, again, he wasn't there yet.

"When do you think they'll be here?" Donna asked, sounding like she was struggling to keep calm.

"I don't know," Felicity answered.

A moment of silence followed, only filled with Oliver's typing and the buzzing of the laptop, which grew louder as Oliver opening a backdoor to the Factory's servers used the CPU's full power.

Donna said, "What would you be doing if you were Sara?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"No, Mom, I don't _know_!"

Oliver raised his eyes from the code scrolling down the screen. Mother and daughter stood opposite one another next to the metal trunk. Tension was rising between them and Oliver could see Felicity struggling to restrain herself. Bringing space between them, Felicity took a step backward. There was an audible edge in her voice. "I know you're worried, Mom. I know. I am, too. But telling you my strategies won't give you any insight to what Sara's doing."

"I just…." Donna's shoulders dropped. "I am close to a breakdown, Felicity. I know that's not helping and you don't need that. Hell, _I_ don't need that. I'm really pulling myself together here. You need to give me something to do or I'll freak."

"Well, you can't babysit ninja babies, obviously." A jerk travelled through Felicity. "I mean you _could_. Theoretically. You'd be able to do that. But you can't. Literally. Because there are none." Her eyes snapped to Oliver and back to her mother. "I can't believe my brain latched on to that when I have so many better things to worry about."

"I think that's why your brain latched on to it." Donna reasoned, still sounding close to a freak-out. "I think that's why I said it." She sighed, maybe to calm herself down.

"Felicity," Oliver dared to cut into the women's conversation, "the numbers I told you… 57.2, right?"

"57.21," she corrected and jumped on the distraction. "What do you need them for?"

"It's the frequency their trackers operated on," he told her, already punching in the numbers. It took a second because the remote access to their main server wasn't as perfect as he liked, but then he nodded, relieved, "It's offline."

"Good new—" Felicity didn't finish. Instead, her whole body went rigid for the barest moment—then she was moving, reaching into the still opened trunk. In that tense, no-nonsense tone she had adopted in the last hour, she said, "Stay where you are."

It was different from her usual Arrow-voice, holding a different intensity that Oliver couldn't quite name and that worried him. For the first time since he had found out Felicity Smoak's secret identity, she didn't seem to be in complete control. Yes, she had brought them here, losing their pursuers along the way, directing them past security cameras, keeping them calm. But ever since they had entered this hideout high above the city, Felicity's calm seemed to have slipped a little—and that was worrying. The Arrow's calm didn't slip.

Maybe, Oliver realized as he got up from the ground and watched her position herself with a gun, Felicity and Donna had that in common. Neither seemed to be good at having nothing to do or too much time to think. Standing next to the hatch, Felicity looked collected again, in control, her hand steady, the barrel of the gun aiming at the ground.

It was an unfamiliar sight, Felicity with a gun. With the purple dress and the high heels it was also a kind of sexy sight—a realization that stunned Oliver. He would've never thought he'd be into anything like _that_. Pushing that inappropriate thought away, he wondered why she chose the gun over the bow.

The contemplation (inappropriate and appropriate) fled from his mind as he heard what had alerted Felicity at least thirty seconds ago. Somebody was coming up the stairs. The sound of multiple footsteps on old wood came from behind the wooden barrier in such a steady tact that Oliver was instantly sure that they didn't belong to attackers. Relief flooded him. Sara, her dad, her girlfriend. He was sure it was them.

Felicity didn't relax. Her muscles stayed tense, the grip on the gun tight. A knock sounded and then, "Felicity, let us in, damn it. It's dark in here."

A huff of air escaped Donna Smoak-Lance. She brought her shaking hands to her forehead while Felicity lowered the gun and slid the hook out of the way to open the hatch. Sara Lance climbed up first, followed by her father. Donna threw herself at her husband, who wrapped his arms around her. Donna mumbled something into his neck and he tightened his grip, turning his head to kiss her temple.

Nyssa entered last and relocked the hatch. A serene expression on her face, she surveyed her surroundings and, to Oliver's utter surprise, moved to stand next to him. She was doing what Oliver had chosen to do when he had entered this… attic, give her girlfriend space. But Nyssa never took her eyes off Sara, watching as the blonde marched to Felicity, who had retreated to a colorful patch of light next to her trunk.

"Felicity," Sara said with an edge in her voice that sounded so very much like the strange tone that had crept into Felicity's. "I need a minute."

Nyssa inhaled deeply, but stayed otherwise immobile and silent next to Oliver.

"You can have your minute in a minute," Felicity countered and looked at her boyfriend. "Is the frequency still inactive?"

Oliver glanced down at the laptop in his hands. "Yes," he confirmed. "Very much offline."

"We found the tracker," Sara countered, calmly. "On dad and his car. We're good."

"You're sure nobody followed you?"

Sara looked ready to strangle her stepsister. "Fe!" she snapped and managed to pack offense, rebuke, and a demand into that one syllable.

Felicity sighed. "Fine." She steeled herself—why and for what, Oliver didn't have the slightest idea. " _One_ minute."

The last statement felt like a green light to Sara, whose calm evaporated in a heartbeat. Taking a step toward her childhood friend, she snapped, "What the FUCK!"

Oliver flinched. His grip on the laptop tightened involuntarily. He had never seen her lose her cool like that. That wasn't the Sara Lance he knew, and the un-expectancy of it threw him.

Sara's sole attention was on Felicity. "How is he _alive_!?" It was demand called out into the bare room crammed with people. Sara obviously didn't expect an answer. Instead, she continued, "He's supposed to be dead! How is he not _dead_?!"

Felicity's calm was wavering, too, the quiver in her voice proved it. "I don't know. He should be dead."

" _Should be_?!" Sara snapped.

"Well," Felicity retorted, volume steadily rising with each word, "I really thought an arrow in his eye did the trick. Plus drowning. After an EXPLOSION."

"I remember the explosion, believe me," Sara shot back while Felicity tried to compose herself.

Once more silence took over, settling heavily on the assembled people.

"Look at it this way," Felicity said, calmer, "at least we know what _doesn't_ kill him."

"He's hopped up on Mirakuru. I'm not sure a bazooka will kill him," Sara retorted.

"That's okay." Felicity shrugged. "I don't have a bazooka anyways."

Sara looked ready to slap her but her father interceded. "That's enough!" Quentin snapped. His arm protectively around Donna, he looked at the two blondes standing opposite one another. "Tell us what's happening. Who's Slade Wilson?"

Oliver could practically see Sara pull herself together, getting over her one minute freak-out. The level-headed woman he had come to know returned. She looked at Felicity and a wordless conversation followed. It ended with both of them facing the other people present and Felicity answering, "He was my mentor on the island."

"That man?" Donna sounded confused. "He promised to kill everyone you love."

"Yeah, we kind of… had a falling out?" That felt like the ultimate understatement. "It's a long story."

"Give us the short version," Quentin demanded.

Again, Felicity and Sara shared a long look. Again, it was Felicity speaking up, avoiding everybody's eyes. "On the island…." She trailed off, swallowed, started anew. "During the first year, I was there alone, without Sara. I had three… allies who taught me things. Slade was one of them." She hesitated but made herself continue. "There was also Shado. She was the first person who taught me how to use a bow. She was… forced to work with the soldiers I told you about, because they'd captured her son… Yao Fei."

Hearing the male name and the way Felicity's voice broke saying it sent a stab through Oliver. He had heard of Yao Fei for the first time tonight, the boyfriend Felicity had on the island, the boyfriend who was dead but who was apparently still important to Felicity. The way her tongue curled around the name was proof. Oliver hated the sudden surge of something that wasn't jealousy (it _wasn't_ ) and uneasiness (it really _wasn't_ ), because Oliver had believed his own name to be the only one Felicity caressed like that.

"Shado was an amazing woman," Felicity continued, a fond but incredibly sad smile playing around her lips. "She double-… actually, I think she _triple_ -crossed the soldiers but, ultimately, she… was killed."

"That was before I came to the island," Sara picked up the tale, giving Felicity the chance to take a deep breath. "When I joined them, Shado was already dead and they had freed Yao Fei. He continued what his mother had started and trained Felicity."

"Okay," Quentin said slowly, "and what does Wilson have to do with all of that?"

"He loved Shado—and Yao," Felicity answered. "He treated Yao like his own son. Even though the age difference was off. But, yeah, paternal feelings and all that."

"You and Yao… were together?" Donna asked and Oliver could feel her eyes snap to him. He didn't react to it, couldn't react to it as he stared at his girlfriend, watching her nod.

"For a while…. Not long." Felicity's voice was barely audible. "It was just after Ray, and I was reboun—" She swallowed heavily, not finishing that word. "It really wasn't my finest moment." Felicity still avoided Oliver's eyes. Instead she said, "The scientist we told you around, the one who rescued Sara from the water, came to the island because he was trying to create super soldiers."

Oliver could feel Nyssa tense next to him. It was the barest flexing of her shoulders but he noticed, even though the vast majority of his attention was on Felicity and Sara. They stood next to each other, more uncomfortable than he had ever seen them.

Sara's voice was small as she continued the story. "He heard a rumor about something called Mirakuru. It was invented by the Chinese during World War II. The key to recreating it was supposed to be on the island." After a heavy pause, she added, "It was."

Felicity stared at the clock face window behind her mother and her stepdad, and Oliver was sure that only pure willpower kept her voice steady. "Stuff happened and Slade got injured. Badly. He was dying and he was… a friend. So, I injected him with Mirakuru—to save him."

"I have a hole in my wall that says he did survive," Quentin stated gruffly. "So, you injected him and he turned into—what?! Superman?"

"No," Felicity corrected. "Superman's a good guy. Slade stopped being good—or rational, or sane—after he got injected. And I'm pretty sure Slade doesn't have laser eyes." She blinked. "God," she breathed. "I really hope he doesn't have laser eyes."

"The Mirakuru made Slade violent," Sara brought them back to topic. "He completely lost it when he found out that Yao Fei was died because…." She shook her head, starting anew. "Ivo… that scientist was a sick bastard. He was mad I ran away from him and he captured us—Felicity, Yao, and me. He made Felicity… choose between Yao and me, made her decide who lived and who died, threatening to kill both of us if she didn't." Sara's eyes landed on Oliver. "It wasn't like Slade said. Felicity didn't kill Yao. Ivo just…." Her gaze wandered to her father and his wife. "When Felicity refused to choose, he aimed at me and Felicity dove in front of me. She saved my life. Ivo shot Yao. _Ivo_ shot him."

Oliver sensed that the last sentence, said with such intensity, was mainly meant for Felicity. But she didn't react to it. She stared ahead—measuredly blowing air out through her lips to keep from crying, clenching her fists to keep her hands from shaking. Oliver's heart ached for her. She looked so vulnerable, more than she ever had before. Oliver could practically feel the guilt tearing at her, the shame weighing her down. The urge to cross the gap separating them and wrap her in his embrace was overwhelming, but he couldn't do that now. Not when Felicity was so on edge, when she was grasping at the remands of her self-restraint.

When Sara needed a minute, she used it to freak out. Felicity always used her minute to keep all her emotions in.

He wished she'd just let go, let it all out, but he understood why she couldn't do that in this situation, why even the freaking out had to be restrained.

Donna Smoak-Lance sniveled, tears trailed down her cheeks. Oliver couldn't even imagine what the mother was thinking about this revelation, how the father next to her felt about his daughter staring down the barrel of a gun aimed by somebody who sounded like a sadistic lunatic. The image playing in front of Oliver's inner eye turned his heart heavy: two people on the ground, facing death; Felicity diving in front of Sara, sentencing a faceless man (Oliver didn't dare imagine him) to death. It might not have been like that—but however it had been, it had been horrible. The trauma of it was written all over the women's faces.

Quentin's voice sounded strangely coated, too, when he said, "I take it Slade didn't approve of your choice."

"We didn't tell him right away," Sara confessed. "I told Felicity not to. Ultimately, Ivo told him—and, yes, Slade lost it."

"He was after us," Felicity said, her voice surprisingly strong. "We had to do something about it—which was why we sent a torpedo at the freighter Slade was on…." She hesitated before adding an explanation, "The torpedo that hurt Sara." She exhaled strongly. "And that's why he hates us—hates _me_ me. He wants to avenge Yao's death. And Slade believes in an eye for an eye—maybe even literally." She straightened up, squaring her shoulders, lifting her chin. "Now that you know the whole horrible story, we need to focus on how to keep you safe." She turned to Sara. "Your safe house's out of town, right? We'll get them ther—"

"No!" Quentin snapped. "I will _not_ leave town. That lunatic's threatening my family and I don't care if he's got super powers, I won't let that slide—and I won't run."

"Quentin—" It sounded like the biggest sigh possible was lodged in Felicity's throat.

"No! Not 'Quentin,'" the detective shot back. "I'm not letting my girls fight this alone."

The sentence hung in the air and Oliver saw the reaction it had on the two stepsisters, saw them pause and Sara's face soften. Felicity took another moment before she said, quietly, steadily, "That's the thing. We can't fight him. That first time I survived by dumb luck. When the torpedo hit, he got trapped under a beam and couldn't move."

"What?" Donna frowned. "I thought he was super strong. Why didn't he just lift the beam?"

"Like I said: dumb luck. I don't know if I can count on getting lucky again." Oliver knew the jerk was coming one second before it happened—and that was oddly comforting, the jerk and anticipating it. "Getting lucky as in having luck, of course." He smiled dimly, despite the situation.

"There's a way to help your luck," Nyssa stated. All eyes snapped to her in surprise. The black-haired woman didn't seem fazed at all. "A.R.G.U.S. has a cure."

Sara inhaled sharply, but Felicity simply shook her head, her blonde hair flowing around her face. "There isn't a cure for Mirakuru."

"There is." Nyssa fixed on her girlfriend. "Tell her."

"There… is," Sara repeated. Felicity crossed her arms in front of her chest and Sara took the hint to continue, explaining quietly. "I told Waller, the head of A.R.G.U.S., about the effects of Mirakuru—it was my ticket in. I didn't know that she'd go to Lian Yu, get a sample, and try to recreate it. Back then, I didn't know her and what she was capable of." Her eyes snapped to Nyssa. "I didn't know she'd try to find a cure."

"She did." Nyssa sounded completely unaffected—Oliver was a little thrown by, and a little jealous at, her impenetrable serenity. "And she did find it. That's why she sent Jenkins and his squad of imbeciles after you."

"I gave her the Mirakuru!" Sara pressed out.

Oliver couldn't exactly follow what the women were talking about anymore, but understanding dawned on Felicity face. "That's your leverage!" she rushed out. "You took the Mirakuru sample."

"Yes! I took that and all the synthesized Mirakuru A.R.G.U.S. had."

"You can trade it for the cure," Nyssa suggested. "It levels the playfield. It gives us a chance to defeat Wilson."

"It gives Waller, the fork-tongued demon-witch, access to a powerful drug," Sara argued, addressing Nyssa. "You know her. She's dead-set on creating her own army of super soldiers. I have enough on my conscious. I don't need _that_ , too."

"I agree," Quentin cut in as Donna nodded along.

Felicity didn't agree, at least not entirely. Oliver could tell from the way her tongue flicked over her lower lip. He could practically feel the war raging inside his girlfriend, weighing the needs of the few she loved and the needs of the faceless many. She was fighting against her selfish longings and for what she believed was the right thing to do. Felicity didn't want to be that person anymore, putting others in danger because it suited her, but Felicity was also a person who'd do anything to keep the people she cared about safe. She pressed her lips together, aggravated.

"Felicity," Oliver dared to speak up for the first time. "We'll find another way."

"I don't see one," Felicity confessed, her sad and guilty eyes rushing over Oliver. "Slade's after us, after you, all of you—and our time's limited. We don't have the time or resources to come up with our own cure—not to mention that I flunked biology."

"Just because Sara hands over the samples doesn't mean that A.R.G.U.S. gets to keep and use them," Oliver reasoned.

Sara sighed. "Oliver, banking on stealing it back is a huge risk. We might not get in. We most likely won't get in. And even if we do…." Her eyes traveled to her girlfriend. "She'll blame you, because you're with me. You know Waller. You know what she'll do. Faced with that, death's the best option."

"The only one breaking in will be me." Oliver was center of attention instantly, but the stunned eyes pinning him down didn't faze him. This, he knew. He knew what he was talking about and he was all confidence. "Computers are controlling everything. Changing the temperature of a freezer—or however those samples are stored—is a piece of cake."

"This is A.R.G.U.S. we're talking about," Nyssa reminded, for the first time sounding somewhat offended. "The cyber security of their facilities is excellent."

"I can get in," Oliver stated, unwaveringly. His eyes searched and found Felicity's. "I got this."

Felicity's gaze locked with his. She appraised him shortly and then gave a nod. "He's got this."

"Sorry, Fe," Sara crossed her arms over her chest. "I know Oliver's good, but that's just cocky. He—"

"Sara," Felicity said, cuttingly. "You know Oliver—and you know he doesn't go around bragging about his skills. You know if he says he can hack A.R.G.U.S., he can hack A.R.G.U.S." Her eyes landed on Nyssa. "But Sara is right: they'll suspect you're in on this once the samples are destroyed."

"Yes," Nyssa nodded. "I am ready to accept that."

Oliver knew what Felicity would say next. She'd object to Nyssa putting herself in danger to correct a wrong Felicity blamed herself for. But Felicity never got to voice it, because Nyssa continued, "It's the best plan and I am willing to do my part. I am done with A.R.G.U.S. anyway. It holds no appeal to me without my beloved."

Tall and proud, Nyssa stood next to Oliver, projecting an air of unshakeable ease, confidence, and determination. She had made up her mind. She was stating facts, telling everybody in unmistakable terms that she was willing to face danger because she loved Sara—that she had made her decision. Everybody in the room knew it. Still, hesitancy was in the air. Everybody knew Nyssa was ready to take the risk, but nobody wanted her to actually do it.

"Okay." To everybody's surprise it was Sara agreeing. "It's your life. Your decision." The familiar phrasing rang in Oliver's ears, but he didn't get to really analyze it as Sara continued. "I don't have a better idea. Trying to cure Slade's our best shot. But I need us to make plans to extract you from A.R.G.U.S. before Oliver destroys the sample. And we need to make sure that sample gets destroyed—even if it means we have to blow A.R.G.U.S. up." She fixed Felicity. "Understood?"

"Understood." Felicity paused before admitting, "I wish we had another plan."

"We don't," Sara countered, voice hard and merciless. "Nyssa and I will contact A.R.G.U.S. to arrange an… agreement, a swap." She glanced around the room, lowering her voice. "Can you keep them safe on your own? Here? It's obvious this was never meant to be more than a quick stop to lick wounds and get lost."

"It's all I have," Felicity admitted.

"You should go to my hideout," Nyssa suggested. "It's more comfortable than this."

"Slade couldn't know about that," Sara reasoned. She glanced at her father quickly. "And I think Dad's right. I know you want to get them out of town, but they're safest close to us. We need to stick together."

"Yes." Urgency laced Donna's voice. "You were alone for too long, Felicity. You know Quentin and I are strategic thinkers, and Oliver is, too. We can make a plan together." The pained expression on her daughter's face told clear tales of the upcoming objection, but Donna wouldn't have it. "Felicity Megan Smoak, we will not leave your side and you will stop being difficult."

Inhaling soundly, Felicity glared at her mother.

"Don't try to argue with me on this," Donna stated, unfazed. "You'll lose."

Felicity's face twisted in unhappiness, her muscles flexed—and then all fight left her. With a sigh and a shake of her head, she handed the gun she had held on to all this time to Sara and turned back to trunk. "I have burner phones. Nyssa, I don't have knives."

The black haired woman finally moved, leaving her position next to Oliver. "It's fine," she stated, pointing into the trunk. "That Glock'll do."

Quentin stepped forward. "I need a firearm, too. My service weapon is at home in the safe."

"Seriously," Sara said, taking a burner phone from Felicity, "that's the last time I go to a family dinner unarmed."

Oliver watched the three people grouping around the stash while Felicity handed weapons, phones, and wigs to Sara and Nyssa. To Quentin, she handed a gun not unlike his usual weapon. Oliver's eyes travelled to Donna Smoak-Lance. She, like him, stood a little to the side, left out of these preparations, but he saw the mother's determination as she met his eyes. He understood the message she sent him with a nod: they might not know how to use a gun, but they'd do their part. As much as Felicity longed to keep them safe, it was their job to look after her, too. They'd make sure she was okay, no matter the risk, no matter the cost.


	21. I've made my decision

My updating-schedule was awful lately, I know, but I really want to get back to weekly updates to bring this to a good end. The wonderful **Albiona** 's helping me and I'm grateful she's still willing to work on this fic. 3

The biggest THANK YOU to all you wonderful people interested and invested my writing. Thanks to everybody who took the time to review! :)

Okay, enough said. I hope you enjoy this chapter 21. I know it's cliché, but I hope you understand why it just _had to_ happen. ;) Love, Jules

* * *

 **I've made my decision**

The only thing Felicity's and Nyssa's safe houses had in common was the safety part.

Where the clock tower was bare and minimalistic, Nyssa's was opulent, even downright luxurious. The outside of the building looked abandoned, close to collapsing, but below lay a stylish apartment, fully furnished, stocked, and equipped. To get there you had to use the secret elevator that appeared to be the fireplace. That weird mixture, part James Bond and part Harry Potter, secretly blew Oliver's mind because… she had a secret _fireplace/elevator_. Bless her! Seriously, Oliver wanted one.

Not that he'd told anybody. He actually hadn't said much. Nobody had, really.

An eerie silence had fallen over the Smoak-Lances and Oliver in the four hours since Sara and Nyssa had left. They had called the head of A.R.G.U.S., Amanda Waler, to set up a meeting. Oliver had re-routed the call, making it appear to have originated in Norway. Oliver had focused on his task, everybody else had done similarly, keeping themselves busy. Now Sara and Nyssa were gone—still doing things—but the others were reduced to waiting.

Quentin had turned on the TV. Some baseball game was playing, but nobody paid attention. Even Quentin Lance was looking through the TV, lost in his own head, sitting with both arms on the back of the couch, frozen into position.

Donna was cooking whatever she had found in the freezer and the supply cabinet. A delicious smell wavered from the kitchen to the living room that was all dark wood, blood red accents, and scented candles. At least one decorative candle holder stood on every flat surface, complete with a white candle, looking and smelling elegant (or decadent—Oliver couldn't decide).

One was placed right next to Oliver's laptop on the long table next to fireplace/elevator. The excited voice of the commentator came from the TV to Oliver's left. The sounds drew Oliver's attention, but what he saw on the screen didn't make any sense to him, especially since half of it was blocked by the back of Quentin's head.

As if pulled by an invisible force, Oliver's eyes wandered back to the door opposite him. Since Felicity had walked through it four hours ago, it had yet to open. She had asked him to give her "a moment to figure this out."

In Oliver's opinion, a moment didn't last four hours.

He couldn't define the time span of "a moment" precisely, but it was shorter than four hours. Four hours was half a workday. And a workday felt longer than two moments.

Frustration tore at Oliver. That closed door and Felicity's lack of reaction when he had softly knocked two hours ago left him feeling rejected, helpless, and just so very confused. Why did she keep her distance from him? She had never done that before. They had their bubble—and a lot was in there with them: her partying past and his various insecurities, her island and their shared fear to not be enough, sex (they had very much inserted sex into their bubble, thank God). There was room for her dead ex-boyfriend in there, Oliver was sure of that. If Felicity wanted, he could also bring his ex-girlfriend—even though Isabel really had no business being there. His life that had improved greatly as soon as Isabel was no longer in it.

Oliver longed to knock again—or, alternatively, kick the damn door in and force her to talk to him. ( _Yeah, Queen, because that'd go over well._ ) He wanted to be respectful of Felicity's needs, but he had his own needs—and he needed to be there for her when she was obviously dealing with a lot.

He wanted to be a supportive boyfriend, but he preferred supporting her by actually being in the same room as her.

"Glowering at the door won't make it open." Donna sank down on the chair next to him. "But I swear, I'm close to kicking that thing in. But I won't, of course. I'm wearing Louboutins."

Ripping his gaze away from the door, he placed them on the woman next to him. She looked pale and tired, her normally impeccable blonde hair a little ruffled. There was so much Oliver longed to say and so much he didn't want to say to her. Gathering all his small-talk skills, he gestured toward the kitchen. "It smells really nice."

"Cooking relaxes me," Donna confessed. "I need relaxing right now."

Oliver nodded and focused back on his laptop. He had spent the last few hours hacking into public security feeds to keep himself busy. But now his work was done, leaving him increasingly anxious.

"How are you?"

Donna's soft question made him look at her again. "I…." he started, but trailed off, only to settle for a "Fine."

"Okay, you are a bad liar," Donna huffed.

"I…." He pressed his lips together, annoyed. His girlfriend's mother was right: he wasn't fine. He was far from fine. "I wish she'd talk to me." The words burst from his lips. "I don't know where her head's at and that's freaking me out."

"I know." Donna sounded like she really did know. "I'm as freaked out as you are. When Felicity gets like that—it's bad. Last time she locked herself in her room, she only came out to board a yacht with Sara and her father."

"Oh," Oliver mocked. "Great."

"Back then she had just slept with Ray, her friend Helena's fiancé."

"I know." He didn't need to hear it. He didn't want to hear it. Everybody knew; it had been all over the gossip pages. Not even Oliver Queen, who had been at MIT at the time and very much not into gossip that wasn't about the Star Trek remake, had been able to escape it. "I don't care about that."

A smile brushed around the corners of Donna's mouth. It vanished when she continued as if Oliver hadn't spoken. "Back then Felicity felt ashamed and guilty, because she'd hurt people she cared about. And despite what the media wrote, she cared about Ray. Probably more than Helena ever did."

"Well, if she would open the damn door I could tell her that she's being an idiot!" The sentence ripped from his lips in an angry half-shout, the frustration and anger spilling over. He slammed his mouth shut again, pressing his lips together. He only opened them to say, quieter again, "I apologize."

"Don't," Quentin said, "you're right. She's being an idiot." Oliver hadn't noticed the detective had gotten off the couch and moved over to the table. Quentin Lance stood opposite him looking at his wife and the younger man. "But I've come to realize that being with a successful strong-willed woman means you have to let them figure things out on their own."

"What?!" Offended, Donna looked up at her husband. "I'm never like _that_!"

"Remember the negotiations with Palmer Tech? You locked yourself in your office for three days."

"That was…. I was _strategizing_!"

"I'm pretty sure that's what Felicity's doing," Quentin reasoned, a half-smile on his face. "She is your daughter, after all."

Donna huffed, not sounding angry exactly. More like caught. After a moment of hesitation, she turned to Oliver, "Did you know about… what they told us earlier?"

"No." Oliver leaned back in his plush red velvet chair. "She told me some things about her time with the Triad. I think that's eating her up most, because… she joined them willingly. We didn't talk much about the island."

"Can you imagine?" Her eyes traveled from Oliver to her husband. "Being forced to choose between two people, decide who gets to live? Living with what that man did?" She shook her head. "I keep picturing it."

Oliver didn't know what to say, because he, too, had pictured it and it had horrified him so much that he had banned himself from going there again.

"She saved my baby girl," Quentin's voice broke saying the last word. When Oliver looked up at him, he found that the detective's eyes were moist. "I know it's wrong to be thankful another person died, but I'm grateful I have my Sara back."

Getting up from her seat, Donna hugged her husband. He buried his face in her hair, breathing her in, holding her close. Feeling uncomfortable and needing to give them a moment of privacy, Oliver placed his attention back on his laptop. Finally, Donna let go, wiping tears away. "God, if we're this torn up, I can't even imagine what Felicity's thinking. That's it, I'm—"

The door opened behind her and Donna Smoak-Lance instantly fell quiet. All eyes turned to Felicity, not looking torn up at all, but perfectly collected. Determination shone from her eyes, her head held high. She looked battle-ready—an impression that was heightened by her Arrow suit. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun, the only thing left before she pulled up her hood (or Shado's hood as Oliver had learned tonight) was to darken her eyes.

"Sara and Nyssa are on their way down," she informed them casually, as if she hadn't gone MIA for hours.

On cue the doors of the elevator opened, revealing the two women. They stepped into the room, Sara carrying a briefcase.

"You have it?" Felicity demanded to know.

"Yes," Sara placed the briefcase onto the dinner table and opened its lid. Vials full of blue liquid, secured in perfectly matching foam cutouts, emanated a strange glow.

"Wow, that's flashy." The sentence fell from Felicity's lips and it soothed something inside Oliver. It was such a Felicity thing to say.

"That's Waller for you. She always took cheap effects over old-fashioned clear."

"Did that woman give you any trouble?" Quentin, the protective father, asked.

"No. She wants Slade dealt with, too." Sara nearly rolled her eyes. "Can't have a super-human that's not under her thumb running around."

"And the cure works?" Felicity's eyes drilled into Sara. "Are we _sure_ it works?"

"I've seen it," Nyssa stated, calmly. "It works."

"Okay." Sara looked around. "What plan did you come up with?"

"The plan," Felicity spoke up a little louder than necessary, "is that I'll go inject Slade while you two keep those three safe."

A gasp from Donna mixed with Quentin's angry "No!"

Sara simply raised an eyebrow at her friend. "That's a crappy plan."

Felicity ignored her and fixed upon Nyssa. "How long until the cure takes effect?"

"It needs to spread in the system. So, one minute, maybe two."

With a satisfied nod, Felicity took two vials out of the foam casing, placed them onto the table, and snapped the suitcase shut. "Backup," she told Sara, taking the suitcase off the table.

"I'm serious," Sara stressed, "that's a bad idea, taking on Slade on your own."

As if she hadn't spoken, Felicity turned to Oliver. "I'll need some injection arrows. Did you check the Factory for bugs and cameras?"

Oliver stared at her for a moment, annoyance flaring within him. The urge to grab her and shake some sense into her overwhelming, because she _couldn't_ be serious. This wasn't like her, and part of him didn't recognize his girlfriend. He make himself answer, pressing his words through gritted teeth. "I did."

"And?"

"And I think Sara's right that your idea's stupid. You said you can't fight Slade."

"I said that before I knew about the cure." She waved her hand dismissively, "I'll be fine."

" _No_." Donna took a step toward her daughter, index finger raised. "We said we'd do this together. Whatever misguided guilt makes you feel like you have to do this obviously messes with your head. I won't let you do it."

"I'd like to see you try and stop me." The ice in Felicity's voice sent a chill through Oliver.

"We could." Sara stated calmly, gesturing to Nyssa and herself. The stepsisters glared at each other, until Sara sighed. "Believe me, Fe, I get it. I really, really do. You think if Slade kills you we're off the hook, but you know him. He's not here for _your_ death."

"That's why he won't fight to kill. But I will. I'll be able to inject him."

"Felicity," Quentin spoke up in a voice filled with reason, "that's not—"

"It's the plan!" Felicity spoke over him. "It's the plan I made and it's what I'll do. You can help me or not," her eyes trailed over Oliver for the barest second. "Disable the bugs in the Factory or not. Either way, it won't change the fact that I've made my decision."

"It's a stupid-ass decision," Donna snapped. Felicity simply walked toward the elevator, pressing the button, while her mother was still talking to her. "I lost you before, Felicity, and I can't believe you'd just walk out on me again like this. When you promised me! You promised me to not shut me out again."

"I'm sorry you're disappointed," Felicity said, calmly. "I'm sorry I disappointed you. But I'd rather have you alive and mad at me than dead. All of you."

The elevator arrived and Felicity stepped into it, her back to the others. Oliver couldn't believe that the woman he loved was being so stupid. He couldn't believe that this might be the last moment he shared with her. He was so furious at her, at her being so self-righteous, so ignorant, and…. She made him so _mad_. And he felt utterly helpless, because he knew there was nothing he could do to change her mind. Because she obviously didn't care—

He couldn't finish the thought, it got stuck in his brain as Felicity dared to turn around. Their eyes met, and in hers he saw every answer to every question he'd ever had about her behavior. He should have known. Actually, he had known, but his own fear and fury had drowned the knowledge out.

She didn't care too little; she cared too much.

She had told him before: she'd never stand by again while other people got hurt. She'd never let anybody die without a fight. But he could also see that she would fight. She wanted to live, she wanted to come back. She wanted to come back to him.

"I'll disable the cameras and bugs in the Factory," he told her. "And I tracked down Slade's headquarters." The elevator doors started to close. "8 Rosmond Street. The penthouse."

A small smile ghosted over her face and when she spoke up, her voice was void of all its previous steel. "Thank you."

The doors closed and all he could do was… hope.

* * *

Felicity was in do-mode. She was ready to get things done and be done with it.

Action didn't require much thinking. She was following trained instincts, strategies. She was relying more on muscle memory than on actual higher brain functions. Her focus was solely on the upcoming fight, because if she dared to let even one stray thought wander to what she was about to do, she'd have to consciously recognize that she was being stupid and that everything the others had said to her was true.

But she was doing this for them.

She was being an idiot for them.

She could live with that.

Or not.

She could live with that, too: not living, for them.

Catching herself, reining in her thoughts, she tightened her grip on her bow. _Enough. Just do it. Just like a Nike ad._ She jumped off the roof and sent an arrow on its way. It rooted itself into the façade of the building, the jerk of safety went through Felicity's body, then she swung through the air and crashed through a window, shards flying everywhere.

Felicity was good at crashing through windows, at using the element of surprise that provided. Her feet had barely touched the ground, she hadn't even given herself time to take proper aiming position, when the first injection arrow was already speeding toward Slade.

He wiped it away with a wave of his hand.

The sword in his tight grip sliced through the carbon fiber of her green arrow, cutting it in half, splinters and pieces of the hard metal bursting and the blue liquid of the cure splashing anywhere. She shot another arrow at him, another, and one more. All three were stopped with a flick of Slade's wrist.

Felicity had failed to capitalize on the element of surprise— _spectacularly_.

Her sudden appearance didn't rattle Slade in the slightest. He had expected her. It was obvious. He was armed (with a _katana_ ) and he was in full protection gear—including a mask. If Felicity hadn't been in do-mode, the fact that Slade Wilson obviously sat around in full body armor would have amused her. But this wasn't funny. The mask reducing his face to sharp contours—one half red, the other black—brought back way too many horrible memories. Seeing it rattled Felicity in a way she hadn't expected but that Slade had definitely intended.

He stood by a desk. It was the only furniture in the huge room. "I knew you'd come," Slade rasped and even though Felicity couldn't see it, she could hear the smile in his voice.

She couldn't acknowledge it, couldn't react. Instead, she crossed the distance separating them. Long ranged attacks hadn't worked, she had to go in, inject him up close. She came at him and dodged Slade's first punch. In one swift movement, switching from avoiding to attacking, the sole of Felicity's foot connected with Slade's stomach. The kick came with all the power, all the strength she could muster, with all her frustrations and fears, forcing Slade backward.

He caught his balance with half a step back—and that was it. It was the barest movement, resembling an adult reacting to the shove of an aggravated child. He was humoring her and mocking her at the same time.

That was all she could give—and it did nothing to him.

A chuckle sounded from behind the black and red mask. His hand closed around her head and Felicity knew that if he closed his fist he'd crack her skull. His grip was tight, painful, but not enough to do actual damage. He simply pushed her backward, making her stumble and fall to the ground. He was playing with her, humiliating her, showing her exactly what he thought of her as an opponent.

"Kiddo, you're predictable," he said and spat the next word at her, " _Pathetic._ "

Picking herself off the floor, Felicity stood tall, pushing her chin up. "I won't let you hurt innocent people."

"You won't _let_ me?" He shook his head, the mask rattling on his face. "You don't have any say. It will happen on my terms! _Mine_." He reached back, took something off the desk, mumbled, "Yes, let's remind her." Suddenly, the lights in the room dimmed. A projector came to life, casting its picture against a bare white wall on Felicity's left. Her eyes were drawn to it. Even though she should focus on her enemy, she couldn't look away.

It was a home video. She watched Yao Fei laugh, hug his mother Shado, both speaking inaudible words. Felicity didn't know when it had been filmed, or where, but she knew that having to watch it was part of Slade's punishment.

 _He's big and bulky_ , Felicity's brain reasoned. _He can't move freely in that show-y armor. Use that_.

"That's enough," Felicity said, surprising herself with the strength in her voice.

"It's enough when I say it's enough!" Slade hollered and something within him snapped. He came for her.

She evaded him easily, stepping around him, reaching back for another injection arrow, and jumped at him, aiming for the unprotected spot on his neck where his skin was visible.

He swatted her hand away.

The arrow flew, crashing against the wall. He kicked his foot back at her, hitting her right thigh, making her stumble and fall to the floor. He reached for her and threw her against the wall, right at the laughing face of Yao Fei. The connection knocked all air out of Felicity and sent her teeth biting into her lip, drawing blood.

Slade was all brute force, but his way worked. He might not consider her a real threat, but he expected her to fight back, to come at him. He was on high alert and the fact that his face was hidden, that she couldn't see the expression on it and what his eyes were looking at, threw her.

She didn't stand a chance and if he kept her at arm's length, if his guard stayed up like that, she'd never be able to inject him. Defeat washed over her. Again, she struggled to her feet, her left side hurting, her right thigh throbbing, her lip bleeding.

"Just take me," she said, not bothering to wipe the blood. "Leave them alone and just… do whatever you want with me."

"I told you, kiddo, whoever was responsible for Yao's death would suffer. And you'll _suffer_. I'll teach you complete despair—and that doesn't equal death. I have no interest in killing you."

"I won't let you do this."

He laughed humorlessly. "What'cha gonna do? Keep coming at me with those darts?!" He stepped toward her with a wild swipe of his sword. Felicity jumped back, mostly avoiding the blade, but the edge still touched her, sliced through her suit, into her upper arm. The burning ran through her and made her twirl around. Ducking, avoiding the blade once more, she moved around him in one flowing movement. There, the naked patch of skin, right in front of her! She reached for another injection arrow, fisting it tightly, bringing her hand down to jam it into his neck. But Slade moved, shifted his weight sideways swinging his sword down. The edge of the weapon connected with her forehead, splitting her open, making her see stars. The blood gushed, clouding her vision. She blinked, but that only made it worse.

Slade chuckled once more. His hands grabbed her and picked her up, holding her over his head. She flew across the room, landing hard on the ground and sliding over the polished tiles.

Suddenly, a high-pitched bell sounded. Trying to orientate, wiping the blood out of her eyes, Felicity sat up and found that an elevator leading right into the penthouse had arrived and opened. Sara stood in it, aiming a gun at Slade. "Let her go, Slade!" she called.

"Please," Slade waved his hand, "take her. I was done with her anyway."

Felicity was unsteady on her feet, much more unsteady than she wanted to be. Not taking her eyes off Slade, she moved backward, toward the elevator, taking position next to Sara.

Slade stood in the empty room, his sword in his hand, his bulky frame emanating threat, his posture radiating self-assuredness. The home video was still projected against the wall. The tiles were freckled with Felicity's blood. Felicity couldn't remember ever feeling more defeated as she pressed the button for the ground floor.

"Enjoy the time you have left with your loved ones," Slade stated, addressing both women as the elevator's doors closed. "It's not much. You can't hide them. You can't beat me. You can't do anything but accept that you deserve what's coming to you."


	22. It was red

I'm relieved that the previous chapter worked for you. I know Felicity being stupid (a sentence that just feels _wrong!_ ) was the stereotypical stubborn vigilante thing to do, but it just _had to_ happen. I hope this chapter makes it up to you.

Albi, thanks for sharing your awesomeness with me.

* * *

 **It was red**

Felicity Smoak had failed the people she loved.

That was such a melodramatic thing to think, but Felicity couldn't keep this exact realization from weighing her down. It was the truth.

She had failed her mission to cure Slade Wilson and level the battlefield. Her plan of attack had burst into flames within the first seconds, but she hadn't given up, had fought and tried and… yes, failed. That was just it: a huge failure that rested on Felicity—her shoulders, her conscience, her everything.

She tried to make sense of it, of what had happened, of what had to happen next, of what she was feeling.

Again, she failed.

There just wasn't any sense to it. She didn't know what to do, and her emotions were all over the place. Reality made her feel numb, defeated in every sense, while at the same time there was some sort of frantic energy tearing at her insides that she just didn't have the strength to act on.

Felicity did the only thing she could in this situation: she followed Sara's lead, riding behind her on Sara's bike, ditching it to climb down into the sewers and walk through smelly water.

In silence the two women made their way across the city, underground, hidden from prying eyes and security cameras. Lost in her dark thoughts, Felicity moved automatically, mimicking Sara's actions without really thinking about them. She was so much in her own head that she actually startled when Sara stopped and broke the silence. "Nyssa's place is right above us."

Blinking, Felicity came back to the here and now, finding herself in a moist and smelly tube only illuminated by the bright white cone of the flashlight Sara held. She directed the light upward and at an iron ladder. With a flick of her wrist, Sara told her stepsister to get up there. Felicity didn't react to the wordless order. She couldn't. She couldn't climb up there and face the people she had disappointed.

"Felicity," Sara said, voice hardening into something an elementary school teacher might use, "get up there."

"Why? After the way I acted before. To return with my tail between my legs?" Hearing her own words coming out of her mouth, Felicity brought her hand to her face, agitated, only to touch the gaping cut on her forehead.

"Nobody up there will give you a 'we told you so,'" Sara said with more gentleness than Felicity felt she deserved. They had been right. She was the idiot returning with bruises and cuts and a messed up face and the clear knowledge that she wasn't good enough.

"Get up the ladder," Sara repeated. "If you don't, I'll have to knock you out and carry you—and if you make me do that, I'll be really pissed. You're heavy."

Felicity didn't have the strength to react, didn't have the strength to argue or comment. She simply followed the order, knowing that she deserved whatever stares filled with judgment and pity she'd receive from the people waiting above her.

Her wet boots made the thin metal pipes of the ladder slippery, but she climbed all the way to the top and found a round metal plate with a security panel next to it.

"1961," Sara said from below her and Felicity bit back commentary about 256-bit encryption. Instead, she punched the numbers in and the metal above her head slid to the side. The bright light shining through the hole blinded her for a second before it was blocked a little by two heads—Quentin and Nyssa. Felicity knew it was them, but couldn't make out their facial expressions. The shadows hid their features, making Felicity steel herself for every possible reaction.

"Thank God." Quentin's relief was audible. He reached for his stepdaughter, taking her arm to help her out of the hole.

Felicity found herself in the living room area of Nyssa's hideout. The carpet previously placed between couch and TV was rolled up, the coffee table pushed to the side. Felicity saw her mother rush toward her with her arms stretched out, but after two steps Donna froze. "Sweetie," she breathed, her eyes roaming her daughter's face and body.

Self-consciously Felicity brought her hand up but stopped mid-movement, remembering the cut on her forehead, the slices in her lip where her teeth had jammed into the flesh. "I…," Felicity started without any idea how to finish that sentence. There were too many possibilities, so many things to say: _I am sorry. I failed. I didn't stand a chance. I shouldn't have faced Slade. I don't know what to do next._ All of those statements were perfectly valid options, because they were all equally true. Still trying to decide which of those thoughts she wanted to voice first, she opened her mouth again. "I'll go wash up."

Choosing flight fit this whole fucking, never-ending day.

With quick, heavy steps, Felicity brushed past her mother and Oliver, away from Quentin hugging Sara and Nyssa bending down to close the hatch to the sewer, and hurried into the room she had already spent four hours hiding in. She made sure to close the door quietly.

When they'd first arrived and Nyssa had told her she could take the guest room if she wanted to rest, Felicity had been baffled. Who had a _guest room_ in a hideout? The level of luxury in this room and all the others was ridiculous— _especially_ for a safe house. It made Felicity wonder about Nyssa—shortly, because Felicity didn't have time to waste thoughts on things like the massive four-poster bed with the delicate carving in the dark wood, or the rich red sheets, or the adjoining marble and gold bathroom.

The last time Felicity had locked herself in this room, avoiding her family, ignoring their attempts to talk with her, she had tried to get her head straight, to create the right mindset for a fight, to get battle ready. She had known she needed to face Slade, she had known the only way to save her loved ones was to cure and fight Slade.

Seeing innocents gunned down that horrible night in Hong Kong, Felicity had promised herself not to kill again. That wasn't who she was anymore, or who she wanted to be. But she had also vowed to never stand by while innocents were hurt. And her mom, Oliver, Quentin, Nyssa, Sara—they were all innocent. Slade coming for them was Felicity's fault alone, and she had decided in this room that she would break her no-killing promise for them. She wouldn't let them sway her from this path she knew they didn't want her on. Hence, the hiding.

Now, Felicity was back to hiding, once more struggling to keep a calm and strategic mindset, but this time failing.

More failure, how fitting.

Standing in the opulent bathroom, her hands shook as she pulled the gloves off and let them drop into the sink, one after the other. They landed on the porcelain with a splat, blood slopping from them. Reluctantly, she met her reflection in the mirror. She had been right before; her face was a mess, smeared with blood, dried and fresh alike. She needed a shower. There also was huge tub (in the _guest bathroom_ ), but Felicity didn't feel like soaking in warm water, like relaxing and soothing her bruises. She just wanted to get rid of the blood as quickly as possible.

With shaking hands, she pulled the zipper of her jacket down. Shrugging it off her shoulders, she winced. Her ribs throbbed from crashing against the wall, her hip ached from being thrown to the floor, her leg pulsed pain where Slade had kicked her. Her body was sore and beaten. Taking her clothes off, untying her boots, pulling her tank over her head and her wet leather pants down her legs—everything was a struggle.

As was holding the tears back.

Being alone, she didn't hide her pained expression, didn't stop the groans from escaping her lips, but she fought against the burning sensation in her eyes that had been threatening to overwhelm her since she'd acknowledged her defeat in the sewers.

The water was hot and soothing as she stepped under the spray. She saw it turn red by her feet. The bloody water trailed down her body and into the drain, becoming a lighter color but never quite clear. Without thinking about it, without wasting any time, Felicity soaped her hair and body, rinsed, and turned the water off.

A huge towel wrapped around her torso, another, smaller one piling up on her head, she stepped in front of the bathroom mirror. She still looked awful, but now she could see the dark circles around her red eyes as well. The cut on her forehead was deep and still oozing droplets of blood. Felicity leaned forward to get a better look at her reflection but froze when a knock sounded from the bathroom door. After only a second of hesitation—before Felicity could decide whether she wanted to say 'go away' or 'come in'—the door opened slowly. Oliver appeared in the doorframe, a box with a tell-tale red cross in hand. He looked at her calmly, taking her in, before stepping into the room.

Felicity turned to him, avoiding his eyes by fixing on the med kit, and reached for it with a quiet "Thank you."

He moved the box with medical supplies out of her reach. "Let me have a look at your wounds."

"It's fine," she objected. "I can do it myself."

"I know you can. But you don't have to do everything on your own. Let me help you."

The gentleness in Oliver's voice made Felicity swallow. He got past her defenses way too easily, he always had. In this situation, in this state of mind, Felicity couldn't find it in her to put up a fight.

The double meaning of his words was obvious. He was talking about taking care of her wounds, but not just that. She knew Oliver and she knew she wouldn't get any more from him. The burning in her eyes intensified, fueled by her affection for him. She made sure not to blink or a tear would fall—and if one fell she wouldn't be able to hold the rest at bay.

"O—" Her voice broke. She started anew. "Okay."

His eyes roamed over her. Having just met her own horrible reflection in the mirror, Felicity had a good idea what he was seeing. Avoiding his gaze, Felicity glanced at his chest, suddenly realizing that he was still wearing the dress shirt he had deemed appropriate for a dinner with her parents. That seemed so far away, like a lifetime ago. The stains on the white cloth proved how much had happened since then. She breathed deliberately, fighting against defeated, desperate tears once more. Instead, she focused on the fact that Oliver had taken off the tie. That thought soothed Felicity, because it was very much her boyfriend. He hated ties and took them off the first chance he got. Knowing that, knowing him, calmed her in the most unexpected way.

"I'll clean the cuts first," he declared, ripping her out of her thoughts. He added gentle pressure to her shoulders, directing her to the edge of the tub. "Sit down."

She followed his instructions and turned to him as he sank down next to her and handed her the med kit, making her hold it for him.

He worked like Oliver Queen always worked: methodically, focused, without hesitation. But he was careful and gentle, too. He cleaned the cuts on her forehead and on her upper arm where Slade's blade had sliced her skin.

"I think you need stitches," he observed after a while, eyes on her forehead. "It's pretty deep." His gaze met hers. "You should get to the hospital."

"That's not happening," she rejected, determined. She looked at the medical supplies gathered in the box and held a tube up. "Squash the skin together and glue it with this." She hesitated, daring to meet his eyes. "Or should I? Because I've—"

"No." He took the tube from her, quickly unscrewing the lid. Once more, silence settled around them as Oliver worked, trying to close the gaping slit on her forehead. It stung, badly. A hiss escaped Felicity. Oliver's hand stilled instantly. "I'm sorr—"

"It's fine," she urged. "Keep going."

"Do you want something for the pain? There—"

"No." Her objection came with emphasis. She really didn't want to take anything. She wanted to keep a clear head, numbing the pain, of various kinds, felt like cheating. Felicity closed her hand around the edge of the bathtub, gathering herself. "Please, keep going."

Oliver did as she asked, again working in silence. By the time he was done, a constant burning had spread over Felicity's forehead. She didn't mind. It was one thing she knew she could deal with. The heavy silence and awkward atmosphere crowding around them, on the other hand, was really hard to handle. It wasn't them; they weren't awkward around each other (anymore).

Oliver left his spot next to her on the bathtub and gathered all the materials he had used. Felicity gazed at her lap, collecting the courage to say what she should have said the second she climbed out of the sewer. Or maybe even sooner. She should have said it back in the clock tower once everybody had been safe (or as safe as they could be, given the circumstances).

Turning her head, she looked up at Oliver standing next to her, so tall. "I'm sorry."

His eyes snapped to hers and his features softened. She saw all hardness leave his face, saw the warmth turning his blue eyes even bluer. (It shouldn't be impossible, but it was happening).

"Fel—"

She hurried to cut off the objection she knew was coming. "Don't say what's happening now isn't my fault, because it is. It's my past catching up with us." The burning in her eyes returned, so very different from the burning on her forehead. She concentrated on the latter.

Oliver put the medical supplies on the counter and sat back down next to her, reaching for her hands. "We all have a past."

A snort escaped her. "Yeah, but yours isn't getting me killed."

He swayed his head left, right, and left again. "I don't know. You don't know my ex." His hands closed around hers, sending comfort and a wordless demand for her full attention. "What happened with that guy… Ivo. I'm sorry." She shook her head, a little desperate. He didn't let her interrupt him. "No, Felicity. What he demanded you to do, that's… psychological…. That's _torture_. I know you, and I know that you were willing to die for Sara that day. Just like you went to Slade today to die for us."

"Dying was only plan B."

"Oh," he huffed, unamused. "Good to know."

"Didn't work, though. Neither did plan A." She swallowed heavily, her eyes fixing on her lap again. "I couldn't inject him. I tried. There's nothing I can do to stop him."

"We'll figure it out."

It sounded like a promise—and it stirred unexpected anger within Felicity that brought her to her feet. She ripped her hand out of Oliver's hold, standing next to where he sat on the edge of the bathtub. "Don't!" she snapped, her hands clutching her towel against her chest. "Don't place your faith in me, Oliver. I don't deserve it. I really don't. Look at where it's brought you." She gestured around the room, realizing one second too late that all the gold and overall fanciness probably squashed the point she was trying to make. "Okay, this is quite nice—but it's still an underground bunker. There's a lunatic out there and he wants to—" She needed to take a deep breath. "He wants to _hurt_ you and it's all because of me. I'm horrible."

"No, you're not. You're just being melodramatic."

"Oliver! The first time we met, I bruised you while taking your favorite screwdriver from you."

A heartbeat of silence followed Felicity's harsh words, and Oliver's lips curved into a smile. The reaction caught Felicity by surprise and she stared at him. He raised one eyebrow. "My favorite screwdriver?"

The question tripped Felicity. The aggravation drained from her. "Yes. The one you always use in the Factory to tinker with the servers or whatever. I remember you using it that day in mom's office. Or… not? I mean…. It was red."

The smile on his face grew. "Yeah. It was." He got up. "I can't believe you remember that."

"It was a memorable moment," she defended.

"It was," he agreed, entering her personal space. "But that wasn't the first time we met. The first time we met, you saved my life. … Most likely. You definitely saved my kneecaps."

"I—" Okay, that was technically true, but she had been under her hood, and he had only been somebody to keep safe, and it hadn't really been her and him meeting. Not really. "That was different."

"No, it wasn't." He insisted, cupping her cheek with his right. "I met _you_. I might not have known, but that woman fighting off those mobsters and then calming me down by letting me know the police were on their way, that's you. That's what I adore about you: your strength and your compassion. That's the core of who you are. You care and you fight for people. You take risks for them. … I can't even be angry with you for trying to die for us. Even though I really should be."

The stupid stinging in her eyes worsened with each word. Her heart grew heavier. The seriousness in his eyes proved that he meant every word, sending a tingle down her spine and moving her tongue. "I love you."

Surprise sparked across his face, parting his lips the barest bit, making his eyes flash. The words replayed in her head. She felt their truth in every fiber of her being and she wanted him to know. She loved him and she wanted to tell him—but not like this.

"Apparently," her tongue moved once more, "just blurting stuff out is very me, too. It's a new me. I'm sorry you seem to get the awkward Felicity version. I seem to have lost my cool when I turned sober." Her face twisted hearing her own words, her eyes snapped shut in horror. Way to go and ruin a moment that hadn't been the right moment to begin with.

"That's okay," Oliver said and Felicity could hear the smile in his voice. It made her open her eyes as he said, "I adore Awkward-Felicity, too. I like that nobody got to know her before me." His eyes sparkled with his smile. It was ridiculous how good that looked on him. His right hand, still resting on her cheek, closed a little, the thumb brushed her cheek. "I love you, too."

Warmth shot through her, a jolt that took her breath and her words away. All she could do was stare up at him and—smile. Because he loved her. _Her._ He knew her. He had a pretty good idea of her careless and violent past. He knew exactly what she was and what she wasn't. He knew her past was threatening to have him killed, but he loved her. She didn't deserve this, didn't deserve him, this wonderful, smart, brave man with a heart of gold and nerves of steel, but she loved him and she trusted him. And if he trusted her with his heart, she'd trust that he knew what he was doing, because she was way in over her head.

"We love each other," she breathed, once again surprising herself. "That's good."

He chuckled, sounding delighted. "We do," he confirmed, then, "It is."

On her tiptoes, she bridged the tiny gap between them and placed her lips on his. Wrapping her arms around him, she pulled him closer, ignoring her burning muscles and her aching bruises, and folded herself against his body. His arms circled her too, holding her close. They deepened the kiss. While they felt, tasted, and touched one another, their warmth merging and the scent of Oliver filling Felicity's consciousness, everything was perfect. The fear, the exhaustion, the defeat, the danger were pushed to the back of Felicity's mind and all that mattered was the man she loved who loved her back.

Reluctantly, they parted, gazing each other until Oliver inhaled audibly through his nose. "We should get you into bed."

She smirked playfully, even though her overall hurting body told her keeping that up was an overall bad idea.  
"That's a tempting offer, but—"

"Felicity," he half-sighed, half-teased, "all you need to do in bed is sleep. You've been up for twenty-four hours. You're wounded, you need to rest." His grip on her tightened, keeping her from moving out of his embrace. "No, I'll stand very firm on this. Sara is sure that Slade will give us some time to panic and get into our own heads. We decided to use the time to get battle ready—and for you that means sleep."

"You've been up as long as I am," Felicity argued. "We got up together this morning."

"That was yesterday. And I never said you'd have to sleep alone."

She tipped her head. "That's true."

A small smile played around his lips and he let go of her. "Nyssa gave me some clothes for you. They're on the bed, I'll get them."

While she was alone, Felicity toweled her hair dry. Placing the wet one on the rail, she shifted her weight to the right slightly. The tiny movement was enough to aggravate her ribs. A wince escaped her—and, of course, Oliver chose that moment to reenter the bathroom, clean panties and t-shirt in hand. He stopped on the threshold, stiffening, worried eyes trailing over her. She was about to take the clothes from him and tell him to head to bed first when he un-froze. "Do you need help?"

She wanted to dismiss him—she had undressed by herself, she could redress on her own—but something in his eyes kept her from refusing. It also gave her the courage to bare everything to him. "Maybe a little."

"Then I'll help a little," he said and watched her open the towel. His eyes studied her naked body, but there wasn't anything heated or sexual in his gaze. He mapped her bruises: the one wrapping around her right ribcage bleeding across her stomach, the angry blotch on her left hip bone that looked like nothing but actually hurt the most, the perfectly oval-shaped mark on her thigh that was an imprint of Slade's shoe.

It was only a short observation. He didn't stare at her, didn't give her time or reason to grow uneasy or self-conscious. The warmth in his eyes told her that he was simply making sure that he couldn't do anything about them. He couldn't and moved to her. Handing her the underwear, he steadied her and helped her pulling them up—bending forward aggravated too many bruises at once. Then he helped her tug the huge t-shirt over her head. He took his own fancy clothes off and dug a burner phone out of the pants pocket. (It was so Oliver to have an electronic device with him at all times, even if it was as cheap and throw-away as this one.)

Together they walked to the canopy bed. Felicity's body felt heavy, weighed down by everything that had happened in the last twelve hours and, as much as she'd like to celebrate their first "I love you," she really couldn't imagine moving much. But she wanted him close. Felicity scooted to him as he pulled the covers over them, both lying on their sides, facing one another. She snuggled against his chest and he put his arm around her. His warmth and his scent surrounded her. This must be her favorite place ever.

"You give the best hugs," she mumbled against his chest and felt him chuckle.

His hand caressed her back. "Thank you for letting me take care of you."

She nodded against him, heaviness settling more and more inside her body, seeping into her bones. "Do you want to talk about… Yao Fei?"

"Not now," he whispered. "Now I want you to sleep."

Hearing his words, a shiver raced through her. How could she sleep when there was a real possibility that Slade might crash into their hideout, which had only one tiny escape route with a slippery ladder down into the sewer? But she would humor Oliver and rest a little, collect what energy she had left. She'd do it because he'd asked her to. She would enjoy feeling him close for a little, a very short while, but she most definitely would not—

* * *

A stinging pain right in the middle of his chest jolted Oliver awake. With a gasp he shot upright on the soft mattress, the ridiculously heavy blanket dropping to his lap. He needed a second to register more than the hurting spot, to understand where he was, and to realize what had woken him up. Felicity was thrashing next to him, fighting off a nightmare invisible to him. He hesitated a second, knowing his girlfriend, all she was capable of, and her reflexes. Tentatively, he reached out to her, but before he could place his hand on her shoulder, she jerked up with a sob tearing from her lips.

"Hey," Oliver said, finally touching her shoulder. "I'm here, you're safe. I'm here." He pulled her into his arms, feeling her heavy breathing against him. He simply held her, not saying anything. He knew that her mind had a variety of horrible experiences to turn into a nightmare, but he was pretty sure that the one she had just experienced wasn't about the Traid or whatever she had done in Moscow. Maybe she had relived memories from the island or her fight with Slade, or maybe she had made up horrible scenarios of what Slade might do in the future. All of that was possible, but Oliver didn't want to know, he didn't ask, because he just needed her to calm down and find her equilibrium. He needed her to believe in herself the way he believed in her—and reliving nightmares didn't help at all.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice coated with sleep. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"No," he objected, because she had really apologized too much lately—she had nothing to apologize for. "It's okay." He closed his arms around her. The tight hug was for her benefit as much as it was for his own.

She nodded against his chest, returned the hug before quickly dropping her arms from his back. "What time is it?"

He reached toward the nightstand and the burner phone resting there. "Noon," he said, surprised.

"I slept for six hours?" she sounded appalled.

Oliver tried to keep the annoyance out of his voice, but it was hard, "You needed the rest."

Apparently, resting time was over. Felicity practically jumped out of bed. Oliver watched her scurry around the room, noticing the she was limping a little and moving very carefully as she finally put on the purple dress she had chosen yesterday for family dinner. Realizing that there was no stopping her, he got up, too. Dressed in his black suit pants and the white dress shirt, he followed her back into the living room.

Only Sara was awake, sitting by the dinner table in front of the laptop. She lifted her eyes off the screen and greeted them with a small smile. "I told your mom that Oliver'd get through to you."

Oliver couldn't see the exact look Felicity sent her stepsister, but it tugged a smirk from Sara and a head-jerk toward the kitchen, "Coffee's ready."

Felicity glanced at him. "I'll get us coffee."

"You don't have to get me coffee," Oliver objected.

Felicity was already on her way to the kitchen, waving at the dinner table. "Just sit down."

Watching his girlfriend, the woman who loved him and who he loved, head into the kitchen, Oliver tried to shake the awkwardness that had captured him since Felicity had left him in bed to jump into action.

"Are you okay?"

Sara's whispered question drew Oliver's attention. She studied him closely, her eyes drilling into him. There was so much knowledge in her gaze that Oliver couldn't help but shrug. "She had a nightmare," he confessed in a whisper of his own.

Thoughtfully, Sara nodded. "I didn't sleep well either. That's why I took Nyssa's watch."

The dark circles around Sara's eyes told long and detailed tales. A sudden feeling of helplessness, of uselessness crushed down on Oliver as he realized Sara had had as many nightmarish experiences as Felicity to rob her of sleep.

Today should be perfect. It was the first day begun with the knowledge that Felicity loved him, that they were on the same page and wanted the same things from their relationship. That should leave him floating on air—but instead the morning only drove home the fact that all he could offer either one of these two women was his compassion and a hug. Neither were of any real help to them.

"Did she talk about last night?" Sara asked, stressing the last words in a way that Oliver could easily translate into 'the fight.'

He shook his head. It was both true and not quite true. The redness of Felicity's eyes, her slumped shoulders, her broken apologies, her desperation, and the way she had let him take care of her had told him more than enough about her state of mind.

"It was bad," Sara said, confirming everything Oliver had suspected.

Before either Oliver or Sara could say anything else, Felicity returned with a cup of coffee in each hand, balancing them carefully, handing one to Oliver, "Black."

"Thank you." He took a sip.

"Fe," Sara said strictly, watching her stepsister sit down next to Oliver, "we need to talk about last night."

"I haven't even taken my first sip of coffee yet."

"Okay," Sara gestured to the mug Felicity was cradling in both hands, "take a sip—and then we'll talk about last night."

With a deep sigh, Felicity fell back in her seat. "What's to say? If last night proved one thing, it's that I can't stop Slade from doing anything."

"I think it proved that he won't make the mistake of underestimating you." Sara closed the laptop in front of her. "And that he's pretty good at playing mind games. That video of Yao was a lot."

"I thought I heard voices." Wrapped in a robe, Donna Smoak-Lance entered the room, followed by her husband. With quick steps she hurried to her daughter, pulled her up from her chair and into her arms. "Don't ever do that again," she half-chided, half-pleaded, clinging to her daughter. "I was worried sick. _Sick_."

"I'm sorry," Felicity mumbled. She hugged her mother back, repeating with more emphasis. "I'm so sorry."

Quentin sent Oliver a quick nod, passing by the table and into the kitchen. Last night, after Felicity had gone to confront Slade, everybody had pinned Oliver down with heated glances—everybody but the detective. While the women had accused Oliver of making a mistake by giving Felicity the address of Slade's penthouse, Quentin Lance had remained silent. After listening for a few moments, he jumped to Oliver's defense, saying that Felicity had made up her mind and that he supported Oliver's decision not to unnecessarily complicate things for her. That had shut everybody up and had made it possible for everybody to focus on the main thing: how to help Felicity. The silent companionship Oliver had felt from the detective last night was still there, transmitted through just one nod.

Donna finally let go of her daughter. Felicity sat back down and Donna took the seat next to her and fixed upon Sara, "You were taking about a video. What video?"

"A video of Yao Fei," Sara answered, eyes glued to Felicity, staring into her still untouched coffee cup.

"He taunted you," Quentin concluded, setting a mug filled with coffee down in front of his wife before taking the opposite seat, next to his daughter.

"He did," Felicity confessed and Oliver heard the hoarseness of her voice.

"He wants to get into your head," Quentin said. "Don't let him. Don't fall for this psychological warfare."

"Easier said than done." The words tumbled from Felicity's lips and she hurriedly brought her mug up, busying herself with drinking her coffee.

"Forget about the mind games," Donna cut in. "You're a strategic thinker, Felicity. Tell me what you learned last night—apart from the fact that Slade Wilson has a flare for the dramatic."

Felicity sat the mug back down. She thought for a moment before she said, her voice sounding stronger, "He… expected me. He planned the encounter and, yes, he knew how to throw me off. With the video and the black-and-red mask. He wanted to hurt me, but there never was any danger that he'd kill me. He never let his guard drop. He never let me get too close to him. His armor was showy and bulky. He couldn't move swiftly. He solely counted on his strength. His missing eye limits his vision. He reacts a little slower to attacks coming from the right. He's using a sword, but I don't know if he really knows how to use it; he just swiped it at me."

"That wasn't a sword," Nyssa joined the table. "From what Sara told me, it was a katana. And you don't use it to swipe at people."

"So, what?" Quentin pursed his lips. "The guy's all about cheap effects?"

"No," Sara gestured at Felicity's bruised face. "Or it wouldn't have ended like that." Her blunt statement was typical Sara, but it was also true. Oliver had been careful when treating the cut on Felicity's forehead, making sure the scar would be as small as possible—but there wasn't any doubt that it _would_ scar. Felicity's lower lip was swollen, there was a bruise on her jaw, and Oliver had seen the other bruises all over her body. Felicity had been in a lot of fights since he'd learned her secret—none of them had ended with her looking like this. (Okay, one had ended with cardiac arrest, but he really couldn't think about _that_ now.)

"Sara's right." The admittance didn't pass Felicity's lips easily. "Slade knows what he's doing. And he knows what I'm doing. He's prepared and he's very careful."

Her words hung in the air heavily for a few long moments. Donna ended the silence. "He knows what you're doing," she repeated slowly. She narrowed her eyes, thinking, and then straightened, "So, do the opposite of that."

Felicity stared at her and mocked, "Great battle plan, Mom."

"I'm serious," the CEO of Smoak International stated in her most cutting tone. "You already followed your instincts and look how well that worked." She dimly gestured to Felicity. "Wilson knows you, but he doesn't know _us_. That means we'll plan and you'll do as we say—which is the opposite of what your instincts tell you."

"Yeah," Felicity stated flatly, "that won't be happening."

"I like it," Sara smirked. "Let's do that."

Oliver could feel the tension growing inside his girlfriend. Letting people take over went against everything her gut told her, against her need to take care of people. Her eyes sought his and a silent request for support shone in them, expecting him to be on her side. And he was. He wanted to help and support her—and he would, but not in the way she expected. Remembering what she had told him last night with tears pooling in her eyes, a sudden idea formed in his mind.

His girlfriend, resident vigilante of Starling City, would freak. Getting ready to hear the Arrow-voice, he straightened up in his seat, meeting Felicity's eyes. "I agree with them. You can't keep us on the sidelines."

Something flashed in her eyes—a mixture of surprise, anger, and disappointment that tore at him more than he had expected—but Oliver powered on, knowing that it would only get worse. "You said Slade didn't let you get close, because he kept his guard up. Somebody else needs to get close to him and inject him with the cure, somebody he doesn't consider a threat."

Felicity knew what he was suggested almost instantly. She tensed even more, every muscle flexed, and her eyes shot angry daggers at him. "No! Absolutely not!"

"Fe—"

"NO!" She jumped up from her seat. "I will not offer you up as bait. He wants to kill you, Oliver. I won't put you in danger like that."

His hand closed around her wrist before she could move too far away from him. He held on gently, knowing that she could rip herself free easily, but she didn't. Instead, she stopped, meeting his gaze.

"You said he made fun of my training," he reminded her. "He obviously doesn't consider me a threat."

"Or me," Donna cut in. "I could be bait, too."

Appalled, Felicity's eyes bounced between her mother and her boyfriend. "Are you out of your minds?!" Her focus zoomed in on Quentin. "Tell your wife 'No.'"

The detective purse his lips. "Have you met my wife?"

"Fe," Sara demanded her stepsister's attention, "Oliver has a point. Slade wants to show you despair. He won't just kill Oliver, he'll turn it into a show. He wants you to watch. He'll be distracted, that might give Oliver a window and a good chance of injecting him with the cure."

"Are you listening to yourself?!" Felicity's voice shrilled. She was close to shouting but not quite there. " _Might_ give him a window! I won't risk his life on a maybe!"

"We can protect him," Sara insisted, her voice urgent, determined. "I'll help keep him safe. Believe me, I don't want anybody else to die in my place."

Felicity's ponytail whipped behind her as she forcefully shook her head.

"Felicity," Oliver said, gently. "I know that you'll protect me." He glanced at Donna quickly. "So does your mother. We're both ready to do this, because we love you. You're not alone anymore. We're here with you, on your side. We believe in you."

She inhaled deeply, soundly. "You shouldn't, I—"

"Don't you dare finish that sentence, Felicity Megan Smoak," Donna Smoak-Lance snapped. "We trust you—deal with it and start trusting in yourself!"

Oliver's fingers let go of her wrist, only to cradle her hand. "Please, Felicity, you need to let me do this." He hesitated before adding, reluctantly. "Or your mother."

"I can't risk you like that. I can't offer you up like that to him. Please, don't ask me to," Felicity pleaded.

"You're looking at it all wrong," Quentin said. "You're not offering anybody up. You're using everything you have."

Oliver knew that Felicity would object against 'using' people, but before he could address that, Sara was already speaking, proving that she knew her best friend, too. "Don't nitpick the wording, Fe. Dad's right. You already tried it your way and that bombed. You need a new strategy and ours is the best. It's smart and, if we all work together, nobody will get hurt."

"You can't be—"

"I _can_ ," Sara insisted. "We are the wild card Slade can't have predicted. He doesn't know what I learned, what Nyssa can do. He doesn't know Dad, Donna, and Oliver. He's underestimating what we can do together. Don't make the same mistake."

Oliver was a little surprised that Sara was so insistent, when it had always been her who had been reluctant to open up to her father. But it seemed that, now all her secrets were out there, she wasn't holding back any longer.

Donna obviously approved. "Felicity, we said we'd face this as a family. Let's finally do that."

A moment of heavy silence followed. When Felicity pushed her shoulders back and a certain determination took over, Oliver knew what her answer would be. He smiled and brought her hand to his lips to kiss her knuckles.

"Good choice," Sara complimented. "I have about seventy percent of a plan, which will include the whole family."

"Oh, great," Felicity huffed. "Family bonding."


	23. Hold on to me tight

Guys, we're getting closer to the end. It's about time, don't you agree? I'm excited so many of you are still with me. Thank you so, so much! I hope you'll enjoy the extended Smoak-Lance bonding by battle. ;)

 **Albiona** , the force is strong with you. Thank you for being on my side [where it's light, of course].

*Hugs* and happy reading!

* * *

 **Hold on to me tight**

Rumor had it that waiting for a battle was worse than the battle itself.

To Oliver, of course, that had always been hearsay, but it had made a lot of sense. The nerves building, the tension rising, too much time to think too much—Oliver could imagine the strain of all that.

Turns out, it was worse than Oliver had imagined.

They had finalized their plan and their preparations an hour ago. Quentin had left and come back, and since then Oliver had been reduced to staring at his laptop, watching a never-changing image. There was nothing he could do but wait for the green light.

Even though the laptop was on the cushion next to him, not in his direct line of view, Oliver's eyes wandered back to the screen time and time again. He knew it was futile. A loud alarm—impossible to miss—would sound if anything changed. But, still, he couldn't stop checking every few seconds… _in case_. It was his only outlet for his nerves.

Felicity's hand falling to his knee gave Oliver pause. Though he hadn't noticed, his leg had been wiggling apparently another outlet for his nerves. Felicity's touch made him aware; it also calmed him. She sat next to him on the couch, appearing much more relaxed than he knew she was. Her hand closed around his knee gently, sending him silent comfort without looking away from Nyssa. The black-haired woman sitting on their right in a huge armchair appeared entirely serene as she told Felicity (and Oliver, but he wasn't really paying attention) about the Mirakuru experiments conducted by A.R.G.U.S.

Not a topic to improve the situation.

Felicity shifted her hand so that her index finger traced the outline of his kneecap. It was the smallest touch, but it came with such gentleness that Oliver zoomed in on it. Her touch was a great thing to focus on, a thing to keep him calm in this underground bunker—unlike that gaping hole leading down to the sewer right in front of him. The opened hatch and the blackness waiting beneath it triggered thoughts that could shatter the fragile aplomb Oliver was clinging to. It made him inwardly recite their plan and contemplate the many things that could go wrong—and there were _lots_ of possibilities for disaster. Like—

A shrill ringing came from his left. Somebody had triggered the proximity alarm he had whipped together. Somebody was in the building above.

"Showtime," Sara got up from her seat by the dinner table, ushering Donna and Quentin to get up, too. "Let's move, people."

His heart beating heavily, Oliver still sat on the couch while everybody else had snapped into action—everybody but him. He reached for the laptop to check the screen before getting up, too.

Nyssa was already climbing down into the sewer, her upper half quickly disappearing from view. Felicity stood next to the hatch to their escape route and reached for her mother's hand, directing her to follow Nyssa. "Watch your step," she requested. Oliver saw her give Donna's hand a quick squeeze and could imagine everything that small gesture transmitted. Steadied by Felicity, the CEO of Smoak International put her foot on the first metal rod. (The other women had made her wear jeans and bulky black boots, stressing intently that she really didn't want to walk through sewers in high heels.)

Quentin was next. Felicity sent him a nod and placed her attention on Oliver. "How many?" she asked.

"I'm counting ten."

Felicity looked at him for a few intense seconds. Love shone in her eyes, giving him a silent promise he accepted with a soft smile. Determination flashed in her gaze and she broke eye contact to ready her bow, stating, "Sara, you're next."

"No," Sara positioned herself next to her stepsister, gun aimed at the fireplace, and ordered, "Oliver, get down there now."

Oliver hesitated only for the barest moment. The longing for a proper goodbye didn't let him react instantly. There were ten guys coming for them and there was so much that could go wrong from here on out. He wished he could leave with his lips tingling with the memory of Felicity's kiss.

The thought vanished as quickly as it appeared, chased away by the image of Felicity and Sara standing next to each other, postures perfect, battle ready, aiming at the elevator doors, humming as the car lowered toward them. Seeing them so calm and in charge reassured Oliver's belief that there wasn't any need to say goodbye. He would share kisses with Felicity in the future.

The elevator doors opened just as Oliver moved to the hole in the ground. Gunshots sounded, drowning out the resonating of the bowstring, mixing with grunts of pain. Reflexively ducking his head, Oliver nearly missed the first step but caught himself. He held the laptop in one hand, cradling it to his chest, which made climbing down the ladder awkward. He wasn't as quick as he would have liked. The shooting increased. Flickering in the lit hole above him told him of movement close to the hatch, maybe hand-to-hand combat. Oliver made himself focus on the stupid ladder so he wouldn't fall, hurt himself, and turn into a liability.

"Move!" Felicity's shout rang down the tube just as Oliver reached the bottom, leaving him to wonder who she was talking to, Sara or the four people in the black hole.

"Follow me," Nyssa ordered and—anticipating the thoughts of the mother, the father, and the boyfriend—added, "They will catch up with us."

The water splashed as they hurried through the sewer as quickly as they could while making sure not to slip, trip, or fall. Donna and Quentin had flashlights. Nyssa held a gun and Oliver his laptop. In tense silence disturbed only by the echoes of the battle reverberating through the tube and the sloshing from their own footsteps, they walked in the imposing darkness cut by the two cones of white light.

"Go right," Nyssa instructed, directing the spouses with the flashlights to lead the way. Only a few meters away, the barest illumination shone in the dark. It was their exit.

"Up," Nyssa ordered and positioned herself with her back to another set of metal rods protruding from a wall. She gave them cover, aiming into the darkness. "Mr. Lance," Nyssa said the name in a way that was both an order and a request, indicating that she wanted her girlfriend's father to head up the ladder first.

Quentin reacted instantly, putting the flashlight in the waistband of his pants.

"Nyssa," said Donna as her husband ascended, "I really think, after all we've been through, it's fine to call him Quentin."

Donna Smoak-Lance's statement didn't even surprise Oliver. Saying that sentence in this situation was very much Donna. Just like her daughter, she always held on to the core of what made her unique. A certain… Donna-ness that not even the pitch black sewer could dim. The corners of Oliver's mouth ticked upward at the thought, even though his heart was drumming in his chest and he was a little winded from their fast, difficult walk away from the battle his girlfriend and his friend were fighting.

"Yes," Quentin huffed in that mocking seriousness of his, never stopping his upward climb, "it is fine. But this is not the best moment to discuss it."

His wife's retort died on her lips when Nyssa spoke up, saying, " _Donna_ , you're next."

Donna's eyes flickered to the side, down the tunnel in the direction of her daughter and stepdaughter. But the objection Oliver expected never came. Instead, she stepped to the ladder.

Oliver knew that leaving the sewers, climbing up there without Felicity and Sara, was hard for the mother. He, too, felt like he was leaving them behind, but he knew he wasn't—that _they_ weren't. Neither of them was any use in a physical fight, and them getting out of the sewers as quickly as possible was the most helpful thing they could do. Donna had promised Felicity to do as she was told tonight. ( _"Tonight you have to follow our orders. Just tonight, Mom."_ ) Keeping that promise, Donna's hands closed around the metal rod by her head.

Knowing that Nyssa wanted the two unarmed people sandwiched between her and Quentin, Oliver moved into position. His heartbeat rang loudly in his own ears, increased by a mixture of adrenaline and aggravation. It took over his whole conscious and, when Nyssa tensed by his side, he needed a moment to hear the splashing of water. Somebody was heading toward them. _Please, let it be Felicity and Sara_ , he thought in what was half plea and half prayer.

Everything inside him longed to wait and see who was coming, but he fought the urge down. Spurred on by Nyssa's pressed out "Oliver," he followed Donna upward.

"It's us. Don't worry."

Felicity's assurance made Oliver falter, stop and look down to where his girlfriend and her stepsister headed toward Nyssa. Relief swooshed through him; the first part of their plan could be successfully checked off. Even though he knew it that was probably the easiest part, it felt like a good start. It felt like at least something.

"Keep moving," Sara ordered in her strictest tone, and Oliver hurried to do as she said.

An alley waited for him. The tiny passage between brick buildings was dirty and quiet, only disturbed by the sound of traffic from their right. Oliver couldn't see the street or the cars driving past because the view was blocked by a huge dumpster, strategically placed in front of this exit that, according to every available blueprint, shouldn't exist. The distant fluorescent light of the streetlamps barely disturbed the darkness in the alley.

Donna's worried eyes greeted him as he pushed himself out of the hole in the ground. "They caught up," he assured her. Donna exhaled loudly.

Stepping to the side, he offered his hand to help whoever climbed up next. It was Felicity. Their eyes met as she placed her hand in his. She didn't need his steadying, her movements were assured and elegant as always. Their touch was mainly reassuring, wordlessly transporting all the things neither of them could say right now.

For the first time, Oliver grasped what it meant to go into the field, to be in the middle of a fight and not on its outskirts. A special mindset and focus were needed for this. The resulting single-mindedness was the purest form of concentration and maybe the difference between life and death.

 _Keep your head in the game_. John Diggle, Oliver's war-experienced best friend, used that term a lot while playing CoD. It gained new meaning, new heaviness in that abandoned alley. A quick squeeze of their joined hands was all Oliver and Felicity could grant themselves.

Felicity sent her mother a quick glance before pulling her hood up. Felicity hiding her face from him like this was unfamiliar to Oliver, but he didn't have time to dwell on it. Sara was already leading the way with quick steps toward the black van parked nearby.

In the next ten minutes, Oliver discovered that riding in the back of a van without seats, seatbelts, or anything to hold on to was a horrible way to travel. He also found out that a break during a mission, a moment to think and realize what was happening and what was supposed to happen, was worse than the waiting beforehand. The reality of the situation crashed in on Oliver, driven home by being bumped around the van.

Gathered around the dinner table in Nyssa's hideout, all of this had felt different, less real, easier, less messy, and more heroic.

With every (literal) bump in the road, nerves grew within Oliver, but it didn't shake his resolve. He wanted to be here and do this, he wanted to play his part in their plan. He'd stick to the course of action they had all agreed on, fully convinced everybody else would, too.

His need to see this through made him push down the longing to touch Felicity, to seek eye-contact despite her hood. (She was using it like a shield to hide from the others. Maybe that was her way of keeping up her resolve.) Oliver knew that, if she grasped how nervous he really was, she'd jump on the opportunity to bring him someplace safe and take him out of the plan. She loathed that he was part of it, that her mother was, and loathed the decision she'd have to make.

That last thought tightened Oliver's drumming chest. With everything that had happened and led to Slade Wilson coming for revenge, _that_ decision might be the burden to break Felicity's determination. He was sure of it. Actually, Felicity hiding her face the way she did took the uncertainty out of the sentence, turned all the possibilities into definites. She was dreading the next events as much as he was, dreading having to choose. Oliver dreaded not being her choice.

Strangely, that steeled his own resolve. He made himself ignore the agitation and focus on his laptop, using the time to check on the programs running. It was futile; he was being bumped around too much. He managed to hand his computer off to Donna in the passenger seat, asking her to tell him the status of the searches and surveillance.

Listening closely, Oliver held on to the back of Donna's seat as Sara steered the van around a corner with screeching tires. Translating the data and summing its meaning up for the others, he said, "Everything seems to be going as planned."

"Good," Sara stated and stressed her words by hitting the breaks heavily. "We're here." She turned around and urged with serious eyes, also sparing Donna a drilling glance, "Stick to the plan! Do as we agreed and… we got this."

Since laying out the seventy percent of a plan she had, Sara had taken point. It was an unfamiliar dynamic, a shift of power within their Team Arrow that had always looked to Felicity to lead. Sara taking charge didn't feel wrong or off, though, just different.

Tonight, it was the right kind of difference.

Felicity had handed the reigns over without hesitation or debate—actually, the leadership change happened without one spoken word. It was her way of admitting that she wasn't in the right state of mind to lead tonight, that the plan to let the others make the decisions and to do as she was told was the best course of action. The reasons for that weren't only mental but physical, too. Felicity didn't wince, didn't complain, but Oliver knew that the bruises all over her body were aggravating her. She had _asked_ for something against the pain—it must be bad if his deliberately sober girlfriend took something willingly.

"Cameras?" Sara asked.

Oliver held his hands out and took the laptop from Donna. Only a few commands were necessary. "Done."

Wordlessly, Felicity opened the back door, jumped out of the van, and hurried away from them, disappearing into the darkness, following their agreement to make sure the others wouldn't be seen with the hooded woman. Oliver snapped the lid of the laptop shut just as Sara ordered, "Let's move."

Across the street towered the thirty-nine stories of Smoak International's headquarters. The red logo shone far above in the night sky. The lobby was only dimly illuminated, showing that office hours were over. Donna Smoak-Lance strutted toward the skyscraper like she owned it (which she did), Quentin and Oliver right behind her. The detective gave him a reassuring nod. Oliver appreciated the gesture. Now that Felicity wasn't close to them anymore, it was harder to hide his spiking nerves. His hands tightened around his laptop, needing something solid and familiar to hold on to, and he returned the nod, somewhat shakily.

Only then did he notice that neither Sara nor Nyssa were following. Donna and Quentin did, too. Stopping on the steps leading up the entrance, all three turned back nearly in sync and found the missing couple still by the van, close to each other, having what looked like a heated discussion.

"I thought they were professionals," Quentin quipped in his trademark annoyance. Standing in the middle of the street (by a suspicious-looking black van, no less), arguing, had to draw attention.

Oliver envied his coolness. The detective made it seem so easy. He had been handling all of this surprisingly well, appearing so normal, so natural. Oliver wished he could do that, but he had enough self-awareness to know he couldn't. He couldn't pretend like that. It was best if he kept his mouth shut—best not to say the wrong thing and give it all away.

"You two coming, or what?!" Donna called over.

Shouting definitely drew attention.

In a dramatic gesture of huffiness including a sassy hair-flip, Nyssa shot around and marched away from her girlfriend, away from the waiting group.

"Nyssa," Sara called after her, pleading, "don't do this."

"No!" A few meters separating them, Nyssa twisted to face her partner again. "I told you: allowing your father to contact SCPD was a mistake. Now look where it got you! Us! You burnt my safe house with your stupidity!"

"It's just a safe house!" Sara argued back.

"Girls," Donna tried to gain their attention. "You can argue inside."

"I'm not going in there," Nyssa objected, "it's the most obvious place we could go."

"It has security, only one access point. It's the best we have right now."

"Your best sucks!"

Sara blinked, obviously caught by surprise. She straightened up. "You don't have to go in there."

"I won't." With that snappy reply Nyssa shot back around and marched down the street.

Sara stared after her for one second before her eyes narrowed. She pursed her lips, further proving she was her father's daughter. Steps heavy, she stomped toward the others, who just stared at her. "Not one word," she warned, marching past them toward the glass door, taking the lead once more.

Oliver followed the other three people up the rest of the stairs where Sara was already holding the door open for Donna Smoak-Lance, wordlessly telling her to take it from here.

Donna did without hesitation; this was her domain. Her steps radiating confidence as she entered the dimly lit lobby. The heavy boots, jeans, and black hoodie gave her appearance a different air than usual. The lack of the distinctively clicking heels took some of the intensity out of her movements, made them appear less sharp—and it made the security guards sitting behind the counter recognize her a few seconds later than they normally would have.

They pulled their feet off the counter and jumped up, one of them hurrying to switch off the basketball game playing on a nearby TV. Caught, they straightened their uniforms, uneasy eyes darting from their CEO to the three people entering the lobby behind her. "Good evening," Donna greeted and the two men hurried to answer politely as Donna stepped to their desk.

The others walked right past without slowing, Sara leading the way. Oliver followed her, trying to appear casual, unable to shake the feeling that he wasn't doing a very good job. His hands were starting to get sweaty now that two people had separated from their group of six. He jammed his left hand into the pocket of his suit pants, his right continued to grip the laptop, hoping he looked relaxed despite the way his palms were sweating all over the metal casing. He just wasn't good at pretending, not like the others.

He was so focused on not being suspicious that none of what Donna said to the guards reached his ears. He just followed Sara through the lobby to the metal detector. For the first time since he had worked at SI, he heard the detector's beeping alarm sound through the huge hall. Luckily, tonight this building didn't feel like his workplace. Everything was so different and surreal that Oliver could perfectly separate that from his daily routine. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Donna Smoak-Lance talk more insistently to the guards, accompanying her words with a raised index finger, while a second beeping identified Quentin Lance's gun.

The men behind the counter in their blue uniforms nodded to everything their CEO told them. The apparent acceptance did nothing to settle Oliver. A buzzing in his ears, he walked toward the executive elevator. Its doors opened as they neared it, another sign of the guards' acceptance. (The elevator was only accessible by the swipe of a keycard or the press of the button from the front desk.) The Lances and Oliver entered the cabin, turned, and stood next to each other without saying a word while Quentin held a hand in front of the doors to keep them from closing. Tension surrounded them as they waited for Donna to follow. She joined them quickly.

"All good?" Sara asked her when the elevator started moving.

"I think so."

That wasn't a yes, but this was the part that wasn't definite. The security guards, their actions and reactions were the one variable they couldn't plan. Oliver wished he was cooler, less affected, but the buzzing in his ears had grown louder than the buzzing of the elevator. He longed to check his laptop again, make sure he had disabled only the cameras meant to be offline. There wasn't any logical reason why he shouldn't have (he had written the program, after all), but he found it more and more difficult to trust that logic. He took a deep breath. He needed to get it together. This was the worst moment to act irrationally (and doubting logic, doubting his own skills, most definitely was not rational).

Sara caught his attention. She'd been glancing at him and, when their eyes met, understanding shone in hers. But the compassion didn't diminish the determination and concentration edged into her features. There wasn't any doubt in her gaze, not one bit of unsureness directed at him. Seeing her so collected—and confident in him—calmed Oliver a little.

They arrived at the thirty-ninth floor. The opening doors revealed Felicity waiting for them, her hood up. Before Oliver could marvel at the fact that she was there already, she crooked her head. "Where's Nyssa?"

"I don't want to talk about it." Sara brushed past her stepsister. "And you don't need to stay hooded, Oliver disabled the security cameras."

One sharp tug and Felicity's face became visible, the frown and the questioning eyes in the midst of black paint. "What happened?"

"I said I don't want to talk about it."

"Fine," Felicity followed Sara down the hall, past Gerry's empty desk into her mother's glass cube. "Then, let's talk about the fact that Nyssa was supposed to be here, so that we'd have three people guarding three people."

"We don't need one-on-one security." Stopping in front of Donna's desk, Sara gestured around the room. "Didn't you say this was the safest place we could find?"

"I said this is the safest place we can find in our current situation." Felicity corrected. "There's a difference."

"My girlfriend just took off and you're getting nitpicky." The near-shout made Felicity step right into Sara's personal space, glaring. "It's not my fault your girlfriend obviously doesn't care about what's happening here!"

"You don't—"

"ENOUGH!" Hands on her hips, Donna Smoak-Lance glowered at the two women. "This is not the time to act like teenagers! Get it together or I'll give you both a timeout!"

Oliver stood on the threshold of the office, trying not to shuffle his feet or clasp his laptop with both hands or look too directly at the scene in front of him. He knew that both Felicity Smoak and Sara Lance had tempers—but they had never aimed them at one another in his presence. He had never witnessed them arguing like that and, despite everything, it was uncomfortable. Apparently, it had happened from time to time pre-island. Earlier, during their brainstorming in Nyssa's hideout, Donna had called it their "annual argument over something minor and stupid." From what Felicity and Sara had told them, their first weeks reconnecting on the island had been defined by fighting as their situation, their fears, and their tempers had gotten the better of them. They had moved past it entirely during their last months on Lian Yu and never fallen back into that habit, despite their rocky reunion in Starling. But they obviously still knew how to tap into that anger when necessary. Not even Donna's words could make them stop glaring at each other.

"That's it," Donna decided. "Time out. Felicity," she pointed to the black leather couch to her left, "Take a seat. Sara," she motioned to the right, "conference room. Take five minutes. This isn't the right moment to fall apart, girls!"

The staring contest continued for a short but intense moment before both took a step backward and went to their respective proverbial corners.

Heavily, Felicity flopped down on the couch and the image shook Oliver out of his frozen state. He crossed the gap to the sitting area while Donna gestured to the private bathroom adjoining her office. "Excuse me for a second. I've had to pee since we escaped through the sewers."

Oliver put his laptop onto the small glass table in front of his girlfriend while sinking down on the black leather. He turned to her, sitting with her eyes closed, breathing deeply. Placing his arm onto the back of the couch, he managed to quasi-hug her. It was a connection without real touch, and Felicity angling her body toward him told him he had guessed her mindset correctly. Slowly, she tilted her head upwards to face him, meeting his eyes. "We'll get through this," she told him, determination that had been lacking last night and this morning adding steel to her voice.

"We will," he confirmed with a smile he knew was weak.

Her hand fell to his thigh. "It's too late to call it off," she said, a sad air around her, of course picking up on his shaken resolve. "You're stuck with me."

"There's nowhere else I want to be." The truth of his words turned his voice stronger. He might not be as cool as he wanted to be, knowing that danger was heading their way, but that didn't change the fact that he wanted this. He believed in this, believed in her.

The corners of her mouth tugged upward, her eyes softened, and she closed the tiny gap between them to kiss him. It was a connection full of softness and confidence, telling him everything she couldn't say at the moment. He brought his right hand up to cup her cheek, keeping it there when they ended the kiss. He gazed into her eyes for a second before pulling her into a hug, cradling her to his body, bringing his lips to her ear to whisper, "It has to be me, Felicity." His voice was quiet but filled with urgency. "I know we agreed you'd decide what was best once Slade shows up, but it has to be me. Promise me."

She stiffened in his arms, flexing her muscles in what he knew was a reflex. The tension stayed within her for a heartbeat and left her with a deep breath. Her hands on his back added pressure and, curling her fists into his shirt, she clung to him and whispered back, "I promise."

He tightened his arms around her for an intense squeeze, hearing the unspoken 'I love you' coming with her promise, feeling her trust in him, the thankfulness for his trust in her, and both of their resolves, their connection strengthening.

"Do you really think it's the right time for that?!" Sara's snap brought Oliver back to the here and now, reminding him that—oh, yeah—Sara was still acting out of control.

Felicity and Oliver let go of each other and got up.

"What else should we be doing?" Felicity challenged, heading toward her stepsister, who had only taken a few steps out of the conference room and into the CEO's office.

"We should get them all out of town," Sara suggested, just as Donna opened the bathroom door. "Or better, out of the country."

"I thought we agreed that it's best if we stay together and protect them."

"How do you want to do that?" Sara shot back. "You're still in bad shape from the last fight."

Oliver noticed Quentin, who stood a little behind his daughter, check his watch as inconspicuously as possible. Oliver didn't know what time it was, but he knew their not-at-all-unsuspicious race across town had brought them to Smoak International twenty-two minutes after armed men had stormed their hideout. How much time had passed since then? Five, ten minutes? It couldn't be longer than that, even though it felt like it.

"Yes, the last fight."

The deep voice, all gravel, made Oliver flinch. His eyes snapped past the detective to the conference room and landed on Slade Wilson.

The man had seemingly appeared out of thin air, and looked as intimidating as Felicity and Sara claimed he would. The man had radiated danger standing in Smoak Mansion, wearing a suit. He looked even more threatening now that he wore black armor emphasizing his muscles. The red and black mask hiding his features made him look truly terrifying. And the sword ( _katana_ , he corrected himself) in his hand made it even worse.

Oliver didn't know where Slade Wilson had come from, hadn't heard him approach. Donna and Quentin were as startled as he was. But their battle-hardened leaders weren't: Sara had already drawn her gun and Felicity was sending an arrow his way.

Slade Wilson sliced the arrow in half before it could connect and evaded Felicity's second arrow with a step to the side. It pierced the wall behind him instead.

"Kiddo, didn't you learn your lesson?" Wilson gestured at Sara, using the hand with the sword. "Listen to her. You can't beat me."

Sara squeezed the trigger. The bullet hit Slade's armor, denting it and making the man angry. He flipped the massive conference table to the side and ran toward them. Oliver could feel the ground shake with each step that madman took.

Felicity and Sara launched into action.

Felicity ran toward her mother, ordering her to "Hold on to me tight!" She practically crashed into Donna, whose arms went around her daughter as an arrow rooted into the ceiling. Using Felicity's momentum, both women burst through the window on the thirty-ninth floor, secured by a cable connected to the arrow. Sara and Quentin followed their example a moment later, Sara needing more time to pull a grappling hook gun from beneath her leather jacket.

The crashing of two floor-to-ceiling windows rang in Oliver's ears. A heavy wind entered through the two gaping holes, making his fancy black dress pants flutter around his legs. Laughter came from behind him. Slowly, he turned around. The man who wanted to destroy the spirit of the woman Oliver loved pointed the katana at him. His deep voice vibrated with pleasure and self-assuredness, "Now you know what it feels like not to be chosen by the one you love."

Oliver Queen was alone with Slade Wilson.

* * *

Felicity Smoak was a practiced window-crasher. Still, swinging hundreds of feet above ground while her mother clung to her sent a wave of slightly panicked adrenaline through her. The sudden dread only spiked for a second, though, before Felicity fell back into well-trained actions. She flexed her muscles, brought her feet forward, and burst through another huge pane of glass. Shards spraying everywhere, Felicity Smoak and Donna Smoak-Lance tumbled onto the tiles of the thirty-eighth floor. The impact knocked all the air out of Felicity, her mother on top of her. Felicity held on to her mother, cradling her mother's head with both hands to keep her down and shield her from the following downpour of glass as Quentin and Sara landed heavily on the floor next to them.

"Are you okay?" Felicity brushed her mother's hair back.

Donna's blonde locks were unfamiliarly messy, wild around her face. It fit the impression of untamed fierceness that swam in her eyes. She was riding a mixture of adrenaline, panic, and relief. Felicity had been high on that cocktail quite a few times and she knew that Donna's next words originated there.

"Why did you pick me? Oliver was much closer to you. We agreed that you'd do what was best in the situation."

Felicity didn't have time, patience, or the right state of mind for _that_ discussion. Infusing finality into her tone, she stated, "I _did_."

She waited for her to move off her, staying quiet, because Felicity really didn't want to debate the promise she had given her boyfriend. The promise which left him alone and in danger one floor above them—a floor she had to go to… _now_.

Donna Smoak-Lance finally came to her senses and slid off her daughter, who pushed herself up. Getting to her feet reminded Felicity of yesterday's lost fight; the painkillers were starting to wear off. A steady ache gathered in her torso, spreading from her ribs and taking over from there. Ignoring the pain, she addressed the Lances still lying on the floor. "You good?"

"Peachy," was Quentin's reply. "Let's never do that again."

"Fine with me," Sara agreed and got up, offering her hand to her dad. Father and daughter looked at each other for a second. Felicity had a pretty good idea what topic their silent communication revolved around and knew that she had to face her mother, too.

One floor above them, a fight was waiting, a battle with a super-strong super-lunatic who wanted to destroy them psychologically through physical destruction. One floor above them, lethal danger was waiting—lethal danger the man Felicity loved was already facing. The last and most dangerous part of their plan was still ahead and she needed to acknowledge it in some way. She needed to find some form of closure with her mother—without actually saying goodbye. Addressing the possibility of defeat was the opposite of facing Slade Wilson collected and confident. But Felicity could let her mother know that she loved her and that she'd give it her all to win this fight and keep all of them unharmed.

Meeting her mother eyes, Felicity realized she didn't need to say anything.

Donna Smoak-Lance knew.

Calm had taken over the older woman. Gone was the wild look, replaced by understanding, the knowledge of everything her daughter wanted her to know before parting.

Felicity Smoak understood, too, reading her mother's gaze. She knew her mother had faith in her. Donna didn't like what her daughter had to do next, wished Felicity didn't have to do it, but she supported her decision and believed in her daughter's abilities. The intensity of Donna's eyes was a silent pep-talk.

Felicity straightened her back, squared her shoulders, tightened her grip on the bow, and turned to her stepsister.

Sara gave one sharp nod, gun ready. "Time to get Oliver out of there."

Leading the way, Felicity headed down the hall toward the elevator. Hand in hand, Donna and Quentin fell into step behind them. The detective had his gun ready, too. Felicity knew that he'd protect her mother if necessary.

Sara next to her, Felicity stopped by to the door to the staircase, facing the spouses once again.

"Stick to the plan," Sara demanded, earning another huff from her father, who pressed the button of the elevator.

"Will do," Donna promised, not breaking eye-contact with her daughter. "Go save your guy."

"Will do."

With a jerk of her head, Felicity pushed the door open and stepped into the stairway. Sara followed. Taking two stairs at a time, the women ran upward, their heavy stomping echoing through the cold staircase. A metal door secured the executive floor, but a perfectly aimed explosive arrow worked as well as the swipe of a keycard (which was at Smoak Mansion in Donna Smoak-Lance's purse).

Bow raised, Felicity entered first, Sara one step behind her with her gun up. They moved soundlessly down the hall and toward the CEO's office. Turning the corner, Felicity fought to keep her face from slipping. The sight greeting her was fuel for the worst kind of nightmare.

Oliver stood with his back pressed against Slade's chest, the edge of a blade against his throat.

Felicity's blood ran cold. Oliver might be slightly taller than Slade, but everybody knew Oliver was at Slade's mercy. The odds were against them. They would have to change them. Felicity gripped her bow tighter.

"Ahh," Slade greeted them with a smile. He had taken his mask off, probably to taunt them, to show off the eyepatch he wore because of Felicity. "I knew you'd come back. To make up for leaving him behind." He fixed upon Sara. "And you brought company."

Felicity cast a quick glance at Oliver, trying to send him reassurance. That one glance had to be enough in this situation, she had to keep her focus on Slade—to be ready to act, not to be distracted, to keep her cool. At the same time, there _had to_ be that one glance, for both their sakes. Felicity could feel the fear coming off Oliver, his eyes drilling into her. Despite that, he kept quiet, alert for his window to strike. But he was terrified and so was Felicity. Her insides were turning, her body was aching, her heart was heavy, but she had to ignore it, bury it deep, not make any mistakes.

Slade kept his attention on Sara. "It's good that you're here, witnessing her lose the man she loves after your _beloved_ already walked out on you." There was an unfamiliar mocking quality to his voice, but the things he said reassured Felicity in the oddest way.

"Nyssa has nothing to do with this," Sara retorted. "And neither does Oliver."

"He has everything to do with this!" Slade snapped, repeating what he had told Felicity last night. His grip on Oliver tightened visibly. "He's proving a pattern. Felicity always leaves her man behind."

A cold shiver raced through Felicity and the grin splitting Slade's face showed that he noticed. He faced Sara again. "You're alive because of that."

Sara's face twisted in genuine fury. "I'm so sick of you. I'm sick of playing your games." She hesitated and let the gun sink. "Actually, I'm done with jumping through hoops for you. I'm done!"

"Sara," Felicity warned, eyes flickering to her stepsister.

"You're surprised?" Slade tilted his head, addressing Felicity. "Did you honestly think she'd be dependable just because you're _family_ now?!" He spat the word. "You're not family, you're still the bickering airheads you were back on Lian Yu."

"This isn't about family," Sara shot back. "It's about Felicity's shit always fucking things up!"

Slade studied Sara for a second before shaking his head. "Still overly melodramatic, I see. You don't matter anyway." He placed his sole attention on Felicity.

If there was one word that didn't describe Sara Lance, it was 'melodramatic'. Not anymore, not after everything that had happened in the previous years, after everything she had lived through. But hearing that word gave Felicity even more hope, because it had been fitting for the Sara of four years ago. Their enemy was underestimating Sara, and that was everything they had wanted. The plan was working.

"Slade," Felicity said, "my family—"

"What do you know about family? YOU TOOK MINE FROM ME." In his rage, his grip on the katana loosened, but it was still nearly digging into Oliver's throat. Moving now would most definitely end with spilled blood. They needed more, more slipping control.

"They were never your family!" Felicity shot back.

That was the wrong thing to say. Slade reached for Oliver's head, pulled it back, and bared more of the younger man's throat. The blade edged Oliver's Adam's apple. Her boyfriend closed his eyes, blocking out his surroundings in an action of helplessness that tore at Felicity.

"THEY WERE," Slade shouted. "Yao was like my son! He looked up to me until you came along. You corrupted him. I'm doing this for him!"

"You don't honestly think Yao would've wanted this?" Felicity was genuinely taken aback. "He would be appalled by what you're doing in his name."

"Don't act like you knew him better than me! He wants this, I know."

Felicity couldn't help but gasp in consternation. "This isn't about what Yao would've wanted! It's want you want. Don't turn this into anything else. This is all _you_."

"NO," Slade roared, and the hatred burning in his eye made Felicity falter. Seeing his twisting features, his grip tightening on Oliver, she feared that she had pushed too far and achieved the opposite of what she wanted. "This is right," Slade insisted. "It's righteous!"

"Why do you think Yao wants this?" Sara's calm voice brought the others' attention, including Oliver's, to her. Understanding flickered over her face and, sounding sure even though her next words ended in a question, "You see him, don't you?"

Startled, Felicity felt her breath hitch in her throat. "You see him?"

A pained expression crossed Slade's features. It was all Felicity needed. She let her bow sink, knowing that if this didn't work, nothing would. "Tell me, Slade. What does Yao look like in your madness? What does he tell you? How did your poisoned mind twist his memory?"

"Shut up," Slade demanded, nearly shouting.

Felicity saw his grip loosen and pressed on, "Because the Yao I remember had a good heart. He believed in forgiveness."

"Shut up!" Slade repeated.

"The Yao I was with knew what our nights together were about. Comfort. Distraction. Human contact that wasn't hurtful. You say I corrupted him? How? By giving him what he needed and taking it from him?"

"I said SHUT UP!" The furious yell ripped from Slade Wilson's lips, his temper flaring, his control finally slipping. "LIES!" he cried. "You're spreading LIES!" He pointed the katana at Felicity, who managed not let the excited flash shooting to her chest show on her face. "My son wasn't anything like that! He lov— AHH!"

Oliver Queen had rammed an injection arrow into Slade's skin in one swift movement, acting without hesitation, without question, using the first good opportunity to do what he was here to do.

The cry tearing from Slade was part shock, part anger. His hand snapped up to his neck.

Felicity felt a jolt of pride, immediately smothered by the adrenaline propelling her toward the two men.

Oliver ducked to the side, only barely escaping Slade's reach as the Australian yanked out the arrow and tried to grab Oliver's neck. Felicity slammed the sole of her foot against Slade's chest, forcing him back, making him stumble, and giving her boyfriend the chance to slip out of range.

A heavy thud came from Felicity's right and she knew the rescue squad had arrived. (If one person could be a squad.) Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Nyssa reach Oliver and pull him out of the office, to safety.

Sara had moved already, stepping to Slade's right. Using his limited vision, she hit him once. He blocked her second punch, catching her fist and crushing it in his. A yell of agony escaped Sara, sending a chill through Felicity.

Knowing the cure wasn't working yet, Felicity kept her distance and aimed an arrow at him. He swiped away one, a second, and a third before the fourth, a rope arrow, managed to bind him. His arms stuck to his sides as the metal rope wrapped around his body—and burst as Slade flexed his muscles. Metal fibers flew everywhere, making Felicity duck and shield her face, but she felt one cut her chin.

"YOU THINK YOU CAN BEAT ME?" Slade had shed the last traces of sanity. His eyepatch had slipped, revealing part of the empty eyehole that lay behind. His remaining eye was wide and wild, darting from Felicity to Sara and back as if unable to focus. A delighted baring of teeth twisted his features. It turned even bigger when he concluded, "YOU CAN'T!" He reached for the couch, lifting it above his head. (Quentin was right, the guy really had a thing for throwing stuff.) In her mind, Felicity could already see the thing fly through the room toward the glass wall, destroying it in an explosion of shards, but the mental image never became reality. Instead, the couch fell from Slade's grip, a dull banging followed.

The cure had worked.

Felicity charged him, jumped, twisted herself around him, and used her weight to pull him to the ground. She rolled over her shoulder and back onto her feet.

A lot could be said about Slade Wilson, but he knew how to fight. He had always known, even pre-Mirakuru. He kicked and twisted his body, slamming Felicity's legs from under her and sending her to the ground. He jumped, lifting the katana above his head in a showy gesture to drive it through Felicity, but Sara was there before he could. She kicked his hands, giving her stepsister time to roll out of reach.

Since Sara's left hand was broken (shattered, most likely), she aimed a series of kicks at Slade, avoiding the blade he still hadn't let go of, and drove Slade back. He wobbled under the blows until he managed to redirect one of her kicks. Sara nearly lost her balance.

Back on her feet, Felicity took over, not giving Slade time to use his katana, forcing him to keep reacting. Slade Wilson might remember Felicity Smoak and Sara Lance as two bickering airheads who knew very little about fighting (and they had made sure he forgot anything else he might have seen while spying on them), but they had gotten their shit together on Lian Yu—and the bond connecting them had definitely strengthened over the last months.

Felicity and Sara were fighting together, as partners, forcing Slade to defend himself. At least one of them was always attacking, but they also acted at the same time. Precisely timed kicks from both of them sent Slade to the ground. He slid backward over the floor toward the gaping hole thirty-nine floors above the sidewalk. The momentum wasn't enough to send him out, though.

"It's over, Slade," Felicity declared. "Give up."

The huge man cowered on the ground, blood gushing from a broken nose.

"Fe," Sara said, holding the gun with her left hand, aiming at their enemy, "he'll never give up. We have to end this."

"I won't break my vow for him. Not for him. I won't."

Sara hesitated. She shifted her weight, her grip closing around her weapon. She gave the smallest nod and, with it, her agreement.

They weren't killers anymore. They wouldn't become killers again for Slade Wilson. They had found themselves. They couldn't lose that for this man. Their progress was important. But they would defend themselves against him, they would do what was necessary to protect themselves. There was a difference, a distinction between those two things that mattered to Felicity.

Watching Slade pick himself up from the floor, she lifted her bow and notched another arrow. "Slade," she said in a clear warning. "Don't make me do this."

"Make you do what?" he spat. "Do to me what you did to Yao?"

There wasn't any reasoning with Slade Wilson. There wasn't anything she could say or do to change a belief he had held onto for years. It was futile to try, a fool's crusade. Felicity spared herself any attempt to achieve the impossible, but she couldn't keep one thought from popping up: the man in front of her had never been entirely stable, but what had ultimately driven him to madness was the drug injected into his system. Slade Wilson was the perpetrator—but he also was a victim. Seeing him bloody and beaten made that fact impossible to ignore.

Still, her voice was steel and the aimed arrow steady as she ordered, "Stand down. We've got a nice prison cell waiting for you."

"HA! You want to lock me up? How do you plan to keep me in your cell?"

"How do you plan to get out of it without your Mirakuru strength?" Sara shot back.

That question gave Slade pause. He gawked at them. The grip on his katana tightened, his jaw clenched, his eye burned with hatred—until his gaze fixed a spot next to the two women. He seemed to stare into nothingness until he gave a short nod. "Yes. We'll be together."

Felicity took one second too long to make sense of what was happening. Her call for "Slade" not entirely past her lips, she watched the man who had first taught her to fight jump of the window.

Frozen, Felicity stared at the spot where Slade Wilson had disappeared, listening for... Felicity didn't know what. A shout maybe, an impact, screams. Nothing came. Instead, reality crashed in on her. She noticed the wind swooshing around them, the buzzing in her ears, the painful throbbing in her thigh and ribcage and face. She felt empty, but awfully relieved at the same time. She felt _alive_.

"He jumped," Sara whispered, stunned. "I never took him for a jumper." With quick steps she crossed to the hole in the glass and looked down. (Felicity's stomach turned just to see Sara look buse, you know, heights.) Sharing Sara's need to check, knowing that jumping out of windows didn't equal plummeting to one's death, she watched at her sister expectantly, waiting for Sara's confirmation that Slade was, indeed, dead.

A loaded glance told her so.

Felicity let the bow sink. "It's over," Felicity breathed. "We're still alive. Everybody's alive." She took a shaky breath. "Okay… everybody's alive but Slade." Sara walked back to her as more words tumbled out of Felicity's lips. "Your crazy plan worked. I can't believe it. He failed and everybody's safe." A hot wave rushed through Felicity, the weight of the last words hitting her, their truth. Felicity smiled brightly. "Everybody's safe."


	24. You really sold it

I know it felt like we'd never get here, but we've finally— _finally!_ —arrived: at the end. It's been a very long trip but for me it's been wonderful—all thanks to you. Thank you for your support, your patience and reviews you sent my way. I'm very grateful and delighted that so many of you enjoyed this story.

 **Albiona** , thank you for not being an Arrow-friend but a friend. I love you.

And since I'm sure some of you want to know: I don't have any plans to continue this 'verse. To be honest, I don't have any plans (or ideas) for a new writing project in general. So, I'm taking a break until the muse hits me with something that's good enough to post. Until then: feel hugged! Love, Jules

* * *

 **You really sold it**

They had spun a web of lies so fragile that it needed a police detective to sell it.

Detective Quentin Lance sold it very, very well.

But it took time, too much time. Impatience was tearing at Oliver. All he wanted was to see Felicity, hug her, and make sure she was as fine as Sara claimed—not just physically fine but okay in every respect.

Two hours had passed since Nyssa Raatko had pulled Oliver Queen out of the office. She dragged him away from her girlfriend and his girlfriend and into the elevator.

During the trip down to the lobby, Oliver rode an entirely unfamiliar high. He had done it! He had injected Slade, fulfilled his part of the mission, faced a man who could crush him with one hand. Standing in the elevator, Oliver felt like he was _the man_. Pride swelled inside him, but it was laced with intense worry and fear. His part might be done, but right in that moment Felicity and Sara were doing theirs—which meant facing the craziest human being Oliver had ever encountered.

Oliver's thoughts were a scrambled mess and he was glad that Felicity and Sara had insisted on a 'guarded extraction'.

Nyssa was Oliver's guard—and Oliver was glad for it. Nyssa Raatko oozed competence and confidence and he simply had to follow her lead. Nyssa moved slowly and carefully, making sure the lobby and the sidewalk in front of the building were empty. They were. Apparently, SI's security guards had listened to their boss and made a run for it.

Quentin and Donna were waiting for them in the van: he behind the wheel, she in the passenger's seat. Nyssa and Oliver had climbed into the back—and that was when they'd stopped sticking to the plan.

The plan called for them to drive to Sara's safe house out of town and wait for a signal from Felicity or Sara that it was safe to come back. As soon as the door closed, Quentin informed them that he wouldn't be leaving town without his daughters. The look on both parents' faces showed that they were steeling for a fight, but to everybody's surprise Nyssa nodded. "I never expected you to." And with that the rest of the plan went out of the window—which was a bad phrase to use considering what happened next.

Oliver would never forget the terror of those long seconds as everybody stared out the windshield at the plummeting body, trying to figure out who it was. Oliver recognized Slade Wilson in the last few moments but his eyes were locked with a force he couldn't name or explain, and which didn't let him look away.

Oliver would never forget the sound of the body impacting pavement. The image of the body breaking, the head splitting open, was also burned into Oliver's brain.

Oliver honestly couldn't blame Donna Smoak-Lance for throwing up out of the opened passenger door.

His own stomach turned at the sight while his heart suddenly lightened. It was neither Felicity nor Sara on that sidewalk and nothing else mattered. He didn't even feel guilty for the intense relief that realization brought along. He couldn't pretend to be sorry that Slade Wilson was dead. The finality of this death came with the strong sense of calm.

The fight was over, and they had won.

Since then, they had been waging a fight with the truth. The police, alerted by IS's escaping security guards, had arrived within a minute of Slade's fall. The story Quentin and Donna Lance had told them consisted of blatant lies, lies by omission, carefully selected half-truths, and a few grains of actual truth. Captain Banks, Quentin Lance's direct supervisor, looked doubtful at some points of their tale, but the Commissioner, who had shown up personally, nodded along to everything and suggested they postpone Sara Lance's statement in favor for getting her to the hospital to take care of her most likely broken right hand.

Felicity had vanished from the executive floor by the time they, accompanied by police officers, made their way up.

Officially, the Arrow had saved Sara Lance from the madman who'd threatened the Smoak-Lance-family. He'd been trying to ransom their daughter for money.

Officially, Felicity Smoak had been in Starling City Library while her sister had been kidnapped. Donna Smoak-Lance had sworn the policemen to secrecy, because after four years alone her daughter wasn't as well as the family wanted everybody to believe. Her PTSD made her draw back from time to time. She sought solitude in such moments and studied sea maps of the area where her father's yacht had sunk. (Even if nobody had seen Felicity Smoak there, the recording of the security tape proved the story.)

Oliver was very sure that the story of her PTSD would be breaking news tomorrow, along with the kidnapping of Sara Lance.

It was the lesser evil.

Two hours of steadily growing impatience, Oliver envying Nyssa for having gotten to go to the hospital with her girlfriend. Gerry Conway had shown up, taking care of CEO business with Donna Smoak-Lance while Quentin Lance and Oliver Queen had been reduced to waiting and repeating their dubious statements.

Finally, after what felt much longer than two hours, they were cleared to go—and it seemed to be an unspoken agreement that Oliver would go where Donna and Quentin went.

They went to Smoak Mansion.

Oliver's Mustang was parked in the driveway—unscratched—a clear sign that Felicity was home already. The driver barely had time to stop the limo before Oliver opened the door. Donna hurried up the stairs next to him, opening the door and calling "Felicity" into the hall.

"Yes," came the reply from the kitchen. Donna and Oliver had only taken two steps when Felicity entered the foyer, studying them closely. "You look fine. Are you—" Donna pulled her daughter into an overly tight hug, keeping Felicity from finishing her question. Instead, holding on to her mother, she said, "It's okay. I'm fine. It's over."

The words Donna murmured into Felicity's hair were slurred by tears. The last traces of cool, trademark Donna Smoak-Lance, burst in a tearful explosion. Oliver could relate, because he was struggling with tears, too. The tension of the previous hours—days, actually—fell away, and in the calm after the storm it was hard to keep it together. Oliver longed to hug Felicity, make sure her already extensive collection of wounds and bruises hadn't grown, but he stood back, summing up his last traces of patience so he wouldn't interfere with this moment.

A heavy hand fell onto Oliver's shoulder. Quentin Lance accompanied the pat with a nod of understanding and thankfulness.

Oliver answered with a nod of his own. He had never expected that he would want a father figure in his life. Now that he had one, he found that he rather liked it.

The opening door caught everybody's attention. Sara and Nyssa stood in a doorframe. A huge grin that looked entirely out of character spread across the blonde's face. "We brought pizza!" Sara spoke a little slower than usual, but excitement dripped from each word. "To celebrate. We team-worked the hell out of that plan!"

Quentin took a step toward her daughter, frowning, "Are you drunk? Did I time-travel to 2006?" He inhaled deeply. "That would fit the insanity of the past few days."

"They gave her something for the pain," Nyssa explained, holding four huge pizza boxes with one hand and closing the door with the other.

"Yup!" Sara confirmed, smirking. "They broke out the good stuff. Because I broke my hand." She waved a cast at them. "I mean, Slade broke my hand. With one hand. Dude, seriously, that was a dick move."

Donna let go of her daughter and studied her stepdaughter. "This _does_ feel awfully familiar." She gestured to the kitchen. "Come on, Sara, let's get some food into you."

"God, yes, I'm starving."

A small smile on her lips, Felicity watched her sister bounce through the hall, followed by the others.

Sara stopped next to Felicity and pecked her cheek. "Teamwork."

"Yes," Felicity confirmed and broke into a delighted smirk, "Team-Arrow-Work."

"Yeah, no, we're not calling it that." Blonde hair flowing around her face, Sara shook her head and continued to the kitchen, following her father, girlfriend, and stepmother, who had already disappeared around the corner. "Not a chance!"

Ease and content surrounded Felicity. Both had been missing since Slade Wilson entered their lives. She looked relaxed and the smile she granted Oliver as he headed to her was warm and beautiful and soothed him like nothing else could. "Hey," he said, quietly. "You did it."

"No," she objected and placed her hand on his chest, right above his heart, " _you_ did it. You were amazing."

"Okay," Oliver amended, "we did it."

"We did," she agreed and her eyes drilled into his. "We'll never do anything like that again."

He huffed, amused. "I really hope not."

She stepped even closer to him, her hand leaving his chest to cup his cheek. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I am. I might have a nervous breakdown later, though."

Oliver intended that to be a light joke, but he failed. Seriousness captured Felicity, her hand closing around his cheek. "You and me both." There was so much knowledge in her eyes, so much understanding and certainty in her voice. It reminded Oliver of her nightmare, the one that had started off their day. Felicity knew what she was talking about and that thought gave her next words even more weight. "We'll be fine. We'll get through it together."

Bringing his arms around her, Oliver hugged her close and pulled her in for a kiss. Their lips connecting let the last traces of tension slip away, spreading warmth through him, making him feel light-headed and grounded at the same time.

Slowly, they parted. Felicity gazed up at him. He could see the thoughts piling up, reflected in her earnest blue eyes, and gave her all the time she needed to prepare what she felt like she needed to address. It didn't take long, but when she did, she spoke quietly, in a loaded tone. "I'm sure you have a lot of questions. About… Slade and Yao. Most of the answers won't be exactly in my favor, but… I'll tell you everything you want to know. Maybe, you could stay the night?" She swallowed, suddenly uneasy. "I know we haven't done that. Stay here in the mansion. It's probably weird for you, with my parents here and everything. Yeah, I see the weirdness. We don't have to do that."

The only reaction Oliver could come up with was to go in for another kiss. He didn't have any words to express all the things he hoped the joining of their lips would.

Felicity Smoak had spent the past few days in constant battle mode. She had fought against an actual enemy, she had also fought against her own demons, the shadows of the past. She had fought for her family and for him. Brave, uncompromisingly, and determined, she was the strongest person he knew and it would never stop amazing him that she trusted him with her weaknesses. Despite everything she had experienced in her darkened past, she dared to show all of herself to him. And he loved all of her.

Oliver ended the kiss. Keeping his face close to hers, he whispered, "We'll do that. But first: pizza."

The smile lighting up Felicity's face was gorgeous. "I'll make sure we save some for breakfast."

"You know the way to a man's heart."

She chuckled and, stepping back, reached for his hand, leading him to the kitchen. The pizza boxes lay opened on the huge table. Donna Smoak-Lance stood by the island, uncorking a bottle of wine, clearly addressing Sara in her no-discussion tone. "No wine for you. Be happy with those pain pills."

"Fine." In exaggerated huffiness, Sara reached for a pizza slice and took a huge bite.

"I have to say," Quentin set wine glasses on the table as Felicity and Oliver sat down, "that fight you two had," he gestured to Nyssa and Sara, "looked pretty real. You really sold it."

Sara snorted, amused. "Nyssa used the s-word. You shouting that was awesome." Her eyes glittered with honest rapture as she mimicked her girlfriend. "Your best _sucks_!" She giggled.

Nyssa looked entirely unaffected, holding a pizza slice in elegant fingers, "I was in character."

"What character was that?!" Sara challenged. "You did a hair flip."

Donna reached for a glass. "You can never go wrong with an angry hair flip…. Unless you're the CEO of a multibillion dollar company, then it's entirely inappropriate." She poured and held it out to Oliver.

He took it with a "thank you." Sinking back in his seat, his arm on the back of Felicity's chair next to him, he watched the people gathered around the table. A relaxed, happy atmosphere filled the room. The realization that this was the 'dinner with the parents' that had been planned two days ago hit Oliver unprepared—as did the fact that it wasn't as awkward as he had expected it to be. It wasn't awkward at all, or forced, because around this table sat six people who had been through hell together, who had fought together and won by trusting one another and relying on each other's strengths. Being here, sitting here, having pizza and a glass of wine felt unexpectedly fitting.

Oliver knew more fights were ahead of them. He had to destroy the Mirakuru like he'd promised Sara. They had to figure out how to get Nyssa out of A.R.G.U.S. And there wasn't any way his girlfriend would hang up her hood anytime soon. But he wasn't worried or scared about any of that because he trusted every one of those people. And he knew Felicity loved him, just like he loved her.

Their future might not be bump-free, but they would handle it.

Starting tomorrow.

Tonight they'd share pizza, light chatter, and laughter. Tonight he'd fall into bed with his vigilante girlfriend. He'd hold her, kiss her, and listen to whatever she wanted to tell him. To Oliver, it really couldn't get any better than that.

 _(The End)_


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